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THE    NEW    PRIEST 


IN 


CONCEPTION  BAY. 


RELIGIOUS  Novels  there  are  many  :  this  is  not  one  of  them. 

These  Figures,  of  gentle,  simple,  sad,  and  merry,  were 
drawn,  (not  in  a  Day,)  upon  the  Walls  of  a  House  of  Exile. 
— Will  the  great  World  care  for  them  ? 


THE    NEW    PRIEST 


IN 


CONCEPTION    BAY. 

3 


A.HUV&V,  aDiivov,  knre,  TO  6'ev  VIKUTO' 

JEscs.  AGAMEM. 


VOLUME  I. 


BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS,     SAMPSON    AND    COMPANY 

M  DCCC  LVIII. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALJFORSSX 
DAVIS 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1858,  by 

PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON  AND  COMPANY, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED     AND     PRINTED     BY 
H.  0.   HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


ONE,    TO    WHOM     I     OWE   ALL,   WILL    Hfi    TAKE    THIS 
AT   MY  HAND,   THE   BEST    I    HAVE? 

August,  1857. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAGK 

I.   A   STRANGE   COUNTRY  IN   THE   WATERS   .  .        9 

II.   A   RARE   INTRUDER 13 

III.  MRS.   BARRE   AND   MISS   DARE   .  .  .  .24 

IV.  A   PRETTY   SCENE    AND  ITS   BREAKING-UP     .  33 
V.  A   WALK  AND   THE   END   OF   IT            .           .           .46 

VI.   A    FEW  MOMENTS    OF    TWO   YOUNG    PEOPLE'S 

LIVES 52 

VII.   A  WRITTEN   ROCK  AND   SOMETHING   MORE       .      56 
VIII.   TRUE   WORDS   ARE   SOMETIMES   VERY  HEAVY       66 

ix.  SKIPPER  GEORGE'S  STORY     ....        74 

X.   A  MEETING  .  .  .  .  .  .  .93 

XI.   SOME   GOSSIP  AND   SOME   REAL   LIFE     .  .        102 

XII.   TWO   MEET   AGAIN      .  •  .  .  .  .   108 

XIII.  A   SAD   YOUNG  HEART   .  ...         .  .  .         117 

XIV.  A   GREAT  LOSS 122 

XV.  A  NEW  MAN .135 

XVI.   TRACES   OF   THE   LOST 142 

XVII.   SEARCHING   STILL 158 

XVIII.   WHICH   WAY  SUSPICION  LEADS  .  .  .167 

XIX.   THE  DAY  FOR   REST 174 

XX.   SUSPECTED   PERSONS  .  .  *  .  .182 

XXI.  AN    OFFICIAL     EXAMINATION,     FROM     WHICH 

SOMETHING   APPEARS          .  .  .  .192 

XXII.   AN   OLD   SMUGGLER   .  206 


viii  CONTENTS. 

CHAP.  PAQB 

XXIII.  AN  INTERVIEW  OF   TWO    WHO  HAVE   MET   BE 

FORE  217 

XXIV.  THE  NEW  PRIEST  AT   BAY-HARBOR  .  .  .   230 
XXV.   A   CALL   AT   A  NUNNERY          ....         244 

XXVI.    THE    MAGISTRATE    DEALS    WITH    OTHER   SUS 
PICIOUS   PERSONS  .  .  .  ...  .   259 

XXVII.   MR.    BANGS    HAS    AN    INTERVIEW  WITH    THE 

HEAD   OF   THE   MISSION      .  ...        270 

XXVIII.  ANOTHER   RELIC   FOUND    .     >     .  .  .  .   282 

XXIX.  MR.   BANGS   A  NEOPHYTE        .  ^       .  .        287 

xxx.  MRS.  BARRE'S  SAD  WALK         .  .  303 


THE    NEW    PRIEST 

IN 

CONCEPTION   BAY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A    STRANGE    COUNTRY   IN   THE   WATERS. 

)P  go  the  surges  on  the  coast  of  Newfoundland, 
and  down,  again,  into  the  sea.  The  huge  island, 
in  which  the  scene  of  our  story  lies,  stands,  with 
its  sheer,  beetling  cliffs,  out  of  the  ocean,  a  monstrous 
mass  of  rock  and  gravel,  almost  without  soil,  like  a  strange 
1  thing  from  the  bottom  of  the  great  deep,  lifted  up,  sud 
denly,  into  sunshine  and  storm,  but  belonging  to  the  watery 
darkness  out  of  which  it  has  been  reared.  The  eye, 
accustomed  to  richer  and  softer  scenes,  finds  something  of 
a  strange  and  almost  startling  beauty  in  its  bold,  hard 
outlines,  cut  out  on  every  side,  against  the  sky. 

There  came  up  with,  or  after  it,  but  never  yet  got  to 
open  air,  those  mountain-sisters,  that,  holding  their  huge 
heads  not  far  below  the  surface,  make  the  shoals  or  Banks 
of  Newfoundland. 

There  are  great  bays  in  the  island's  sides,  and  harbors 
in  the  shores  of  the  great  bays  ;  and  in  and  out  of  thest 
washes  the  water  that  used,  perhaps,  to  float  all  over ; 
and  on  the  banks  and  hi  these  bays  and  harbors,  the  fish 


10  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

have  found  new  homes,  for  their  old  haunts  that  have 
been  lifted  up  into  the  air  out  of  their  reach. 

Towards  the  eastern  end  of  Newfoundland,  two  of 
these  great  bays,  called  Trinity  and  Placentia,  come  in, 
from  opposite  sides,  north  and  south,  and  almost  cut  the 
island  through ;  an  isthmus  only  three  or  four  miles  wide, 
in  one  part,  keeping  them  still  asunder.  Up  one  of  these 
bays,  and  down  the  other,  crossing  the  neck  between,  the 
telegraph-cable  has  been  drawn. 

Inland,  surrounded  by  a  fringe  of  small  forests  on  the 
coast,  is  a  vast  wilderness  of  moss,  and  rock,  and  lake, 
and  dwarf  firs  about  breast-high.  These  little  trees  are 
so  close  and  stiff,  and  flat-topped,  that  one  can  almost 
walk  them ;  of  course  they  are  very  hard  things  to  make 
way  through  and  among. 

Around  the  bays,  in  coves  and  harbors,  (chiefly  on 
Avalon,  the  piece  almost  cut  off,)  the  people  live :  there 
are  no  fertile  fields  to  tempt  them  inland,  and  they  get 
their  harvests  from  the  sea. 

In  March  or  April  almost  all  the  men  go  out  in  fleets 
to  meet  the  ice  that  floats  down  from  the  northern  re 
gions,  and  to  kill  the  seals  that  come  down  on  it.  In 
early  summer  a  third  part  or  a  half  of  all  the  people  go, 
by  families,  in  their  schooners,  to  the  coast  of  Labrador, 
and  spend  the  summer,  fishing  there ;  and  in  the  winter, 
half  of  them  are  living  in  the  woods,  in  "  tilts,"  to  have 
their  fuel  near  them.  At  home  or  abroad,  during  the 
season,  the  men  are  on  the  water  for  seals  or  cod.  The 
women  sow,  and  plant,  and  tend  the  h'ttle  gardens,  and  dry 
the  fish:  in  short  they  do  the  land-work;  and  are  the 
better  for  it. 

Every  town  in  the  country  is  a  fishing  town.  St. 
John's,  the  capital,  has  grown  into  a  city  of  twenty  thou- 


A  STRANGE  COUNTRY  IN  THE  WATERS.  H 

sand  or  more  people ;  but  it  is  still  a  fishing  town.  Sta 
ges,*  and  flakes,f  and  store-houses,  for  fish,  are  met 
wherever  a  fit  place  offers  itself,  near  the  water,  in  every 
settlement. 

The  little  town  of  Peterport,  along  one  of  the  slits  in. 
the  shore  of  Conception  Bay,  was  a  pretty  place,  thirty 
or  forty  years  ago,  with  its  cliffs  and  ridges  and  coves. 

Its  people  (four  fifths  of  whom  were  church-people  J) 
lived  by  clans — Yarls,  Franks,  Marchants,  and  Ressles, — 
in  different  settlements,  on  its  main  strip  of  land  and 
Indian  Point,  wherever  a  beach  or  jutting  cliff  made  a 
good  place  for  flakes  or  stages,  or  offered  shelter  for  their 
boats.  They  had  one  minister  ("  pareson,"  they  called  him, 
in  their  kindly  tongue,)  five  merchants,  one  schoolmaster, 
two  smiths,  three  coopers ;  every  man,  woman,  and  child, 
beside,  wrought  in  the  fishery.  In  summer,  most  of  the 
heads  of  families,  with  their  sons  and  daughters,  of  all 
ages,  were  gone,  for  the  season,  to  the  coast  of  Labrador. 
Almost  all  the  harbor-schooners,  at  the  time  in  which  our 
story  opens,  were  there.  The  only  square-rigged  vessel 
(of  six  or  eight  belonging  here)  was  the  brig  Spring- 
Bird,  Captain  (not  Skipper)  John  Nolesworth,  a  foreign 
trader,  of  Worner,  Grose  &  Co. 

The  church  stood  midway  on  the  harbor  road  ;  having 
a  flag-staff  upon  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  cliffs ;  on 
which  staff  a  fair  large  flag,  bearing  a  white  cross,  called 
the  people  to  prayers, — at  half-mast  to  funerals.  A 
schoolhouse  stood  near  the  church ;  dwelling-houses,  larger 
and  less,  better  and  worse,  stood  in  and  about  the  different 
coves;  storehouses  upon  the  merchants'  "rooms,"  each 

*  Houses  for  "heading,"  and  "  splitting,"  and  salting  fish, 
t  Platform  of  poles  and  boughs,  for  drying  fish, 
t  Of  the  Anglican  Church. 


12  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

with  its  "house-flag"  staff;  and  everywhere  along  the 
water,  flakes  and  stages.  One  road  went  down  the  har 
bor,  winding  with  the  winding  shore,  but  going  straight 
across  when  its  companion,  as  at  Beachy  Cove,  made 
a  wide  sweep  into  the  sea.  Along  this  pretty  thorough 
fare  there  dwelt  much  innocence  and  peace ;  as  over  it 
there  went  the  feet  of  many  sturdy  toilers,  and  thronging 
churchward-goers. 


A  EARE  INTRUDER.  13 


CHAPTER  II. 

A    RARE    INTRUDER. 

JHIRTY  years  ago,  or  longer,  one  bright  day  in 
August,  the  church  missionary,  the  Reverend  Ar 
thur  Wellon,  was  walking  down  the  harbor,  with 
strong  step,  and  swinging  his  cane ;  a  stoutly-built  Eng 
lishman,  of  good  height,  not  very  handsome,  but  open, 
kindly,  intelligent,  and  reverend-looking ;  in  dress  just 
grave  enough  and  just  enough  unlike  other  gentlemen  to 
mark  his  office  to  those  who  would  not  know  it  from  his 
face.  He  is  the  central  person,  though  not  the  chief 
actor,  in  our  story. 

He  was  a  frank  and  kindly  man ;  straightforward, 
honest,  and,  in  a  rather  homely  way,  a  little  humorous. 
He  had  seen  something  of  the  world,  in  living  thirty 
years,  and  to  good  purpose ;  had  a  mind  large  enough 
(because  it  opened  into  his  heart)  to  take  in  more  things 
than  the  mere  habits  of  his  order  or  his  social  rank ;  and 
while  he  lored,  heartily,  the  faith  and  services  of  his 
church,  he  had  that  common  sense  without  which  the 
Reformers  would  never  have  got  and  kept  our  Common 
Prayer.  He  was  a  good  scholar,  too,  as  well  as  a  good 
parish  priest. 

This  was  the  man  then  that  had  just  left  his  house, 
(a  comely  white  one,  with  two  little  wings,)  and  was  walk 


14  THE  NEW   PRIEST. 

ing  down  the  harbor-road,  breaking  forth,  now  and  then, 
when  the  way  was  clear,  into  a  cheery  snatch  of  sacred 
(or  not  profane)  song. 

The  first  turn  in  the  road  brought  him  in  sight  of  two 
persons  walking  in  company  in  advance  of  him, — a  gentle 
man  of  about  his  own  age,  and  looking  like  a  clergyman, 
and  a  tall,  large,  strongly-moulded  fisherman  of  some 
sixty  years.  The  former  seemed  to  be  listening,  rather 
than  talking,  while  his  companion  spoke  earnestly,  as 
appeared  from  his  homely  gestures. 

On  the  hill-top,  near  Beachy  Cove,  (named  from  its 
strip  of  sand  and  shingle  edging  the  shore,)  they  stood 
still ;  and  the  Minister,  who  was  not  far  behind  them, 
could  scarcely  help  hearing  what  was  said.  The  fisher 
man  still  spoke ;  his  voice  and  manner  having  the  gentle 
ness  and  modesty  almost  of  a  child.  One  arm  passed 
through  a  coil  of  small  rope ;  and  in  his  hand  he  held, 
with  a  carefulness  that  never  forsook  him,  a  bright-col 
ored  seaweed.  The  gentleman  listened  to  him  as  if  he 
had  the  honeyed  speech  of  Nestor.  It  was  some  story  of 
the  sea,  apparently,  that  he  was  telling,  or  commenting 
upon. 

The  Minister  looked  curiously  toward  the  group,  as 
they  stood,  not  noticing  him  ;  and  then,  after  a  momentary 
hesitation,  went  across  a  little  open  green,  entered  the 
enclosure  of  a  plain,  modest-looking  house,  about  which 
creepers  and  shrubs  and  flowers,  here  and  there,  showed 
taste  and  will  more  than  common.  His  dog,  a  noble 
great  black  fellow,  "  Epictetus,"  who  had  loitered  some 
where  upon  the  road,  came  to  his  master,  here,  and  waited 
at  his  side,  as  he  stood  before  the  door,  after  knocking. 

The  parting  words  of  the  stranger,  thanking  his  com 
panion  for  his  society  in  their  walk,  and  of  the  stout  fisher- 


A  BAKE  INTEUDER.  15 

man  turning  meekly  back  the  thanks,  came  through  the 
still  air,  across  from  where  they  stood. 

"  It  was  very  good  of  'ee,  sir,"  said  the  latter,  "  to  come 
along  wi'  me,"  and  hear  my  poor  talk. — I  wish  'ee  a  very 
good  mornin,  sir,  an'  I  '11  carry  this  bit  of  a  thing  to  my 
maid,*  please  God.  One  o'  the  nighbors  sen'd  it.  She 
makes  a  many  bright  things  o'  such." 

When  he  had  done  speaking,  his  strong  steps  were 
heard  as  he  went  on  his  way,  alone ;  for  the  whole  scene 
was  as  it  had  been  for  hours,  still  and  quiet,  as  if,  in  going 
to  their  fishing,  the  people  had  left  no  life  behind  them. 
There  had  been  scarce  a  moving  thing,  (if  the  eye  sought 
one,)  save  a  light  reek  from  a  chimney,  (a  fairer  thing,  as 
it  floated  over  the  poor  man's  dwelling,  than  ducal  or 
royal  banner,)  and  a  lone  white  summer-cloud,  low  over 
the  earth ;  where  the  wind,  taking  holiday  elsewhere,  left 
it  to  itself. 

Finding  that  Mrs.  Barre,  for  whom  he  asked,  had 
walked  down  the  harbor,  the  Minister  went  forth  again, 
toward  the  road. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill,  where  he  had  stood  with  the 
fisherman,  the  stranger  was  still  standing ;  now  gazing 
over  the  water,  toward  the  hills  in  the  far  southwest ;  a 
very  striking  and  interesting  looking  person  he  was.  It 
was  impossible  for  the  Minister  to  pass  him  without  salu 
tation,  and  the  dog  loitered,  as  if  he  was  confident  of  some 
intercourse  between  them.  The  stranger  returned  Mr. 
Wellon's  silent  greeting,  gracefully,  and  came  forward  to 
meet  him. 

"  This  atmosphere  becomes  the  scene  extremely,"  said 
he,  beginning  a  conversation. 

*  Maid  is  pronounced  myde;    bay,  bye;    play,  plye ;    neighbor, 
nyebor,  &c. 


16  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

The  Minister  turned  and  cast  his  eyes  over  the  land 
scape. 

The  summer  weather,  as,  at  its  best  it  is  there,  was 
beautiful.  The  eye  did  not  seek  shade,  as  in  other  coun 
tries  ;  and  it  seemed,  almost,  as  if  the  air  were  so  bright 
that  shadows  did  not  fall.  The  waves  came  slowly  break 
ing  on  the  beach,  or  in  great  cool  dashes  against  the  rocks. 
One  little  clump  of  trees,  spruces  and  firs,  tame  captives 
from  the  woods,  stood  on  the  rising  ground,  not  far  off. 
Rocks  showed  themselves  on  every  side,  breaking  out 
through  the  soil,  sometimes  as  ridges,  sometimes  in  single 
masses ;  and  beyond  the  low  woods  which  could  be  seen  a 
mile  or  two  inland,  great,  bald,  rounded,  strange-looking 
heads  of  mountain-rocks. 

"Yes,  our  rough  country  has  its  beauties,"  said  Mr. 
Wellon. — "  We've  as  good  an  ocean  as  anybody,  and  I 
think  we  could  make  a  pretty  good  show  of  rocks." 

"  There  are  some  very  handsome  ones,  certainly,"  said 
the  stranger,  going  on  with  the  conversation,  when  begun  : 
"  those  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  bay,  for  example, 
with  their  strong  red,  and  green,  and  white,  as  if  all  the 
colors  of  grass,  and  foliage,  and  flowers,  had  been  laid  on 
a  huge  stone  pallet  before  painting  the  earth  with  them." 

"Not  many  of  them  have  ever  been  laid  upon  the 
land,"  said  the  parson  smiling,  "  they  seem  all  to  have 
staid  upon  the  pallet.  You  know  an  Indian  tradition  was, 
that  this  island  was  the  heap  of  rubbish  which  the  great 
Maker  threw  into  the  sea,  when  He  had  finished  the 
neighboring  continent." 

The  stranger  spoke  like  one  familiar  with  these  things, 
and  fond  of  them : — 

"  With  sea  and  rock  alone,"  said  he,  "  especially  such 
rocks,  there  is  plenty  of  beauty ;  but  with  woods  beside, 


A  RARE  INTRUDER.  17 

and  sunshine  and  shadow,  and  passing  clouds,  and  twilight 
and  night,  it's  inexhaustible ;  and  (you  remember)  as  you 
look  along  those  cliffs  on  the  other  shore,  how  many  a 
little  bay  turns  in  and  is  lost  behind  the  great  wall,  like 
Virgil's 

'  Est  in  secessu  longo  locus : 

omnis,  ab  alto, 
Frangitur,  inque  sinus  scindit  sese,  unda,  reductos.' 

They  make  the  very  heart  yearn  after  them,  as  if  it  might 
find  sweet  peace  in  those  far  little  retreats." 

There  was  a  tone  of  reality,  without  the  least  affecta 
tion,  in  what  he  said.  The  glow  that  came  with  a  part 
of  this  speech,  and  the  slight  melancholy  which  touched 
the  last  part  of  the  sentence,  made  it  far  more  interesting 
to  the  hearer  than  it  may  have  been  to  the  reader.  The 
speaker's  manner  was  very  taking,  and  the  near  view  con 
firmed  the  impression  of  him  made  at  a  little  distance. 
His  complexion  was  a  clear  and  fresh  one ;  his  eyes  were 
blue  and  of  full  proportions,  deeply-lighted,  and  having 
that  quick,  broad  glance  which  is  the  outward  faculty  of 
genius.  His  features,  indeed,  were  all  handsome  and  ex 
pressive,  even  his  auburn  hair. 

The  Minister  did  not  immediately  speak.  After  a  little 
pause,  he  said : — 

"  You've  a  better  eye  than  mine.  I  go  about  here,  up 
hill  and  down,  into  the  coves,  and  across  the  water, 
without  thinking  much  more  of  the  sea  and  the  rocks, 
than  as  places  for  catching  or  drying  cod." 

"I  can't  think  that,"  the  stranger  answered.  "Who 
can  look  at  those  great  mountains  yonder,  without  being 
startled,  if  he  knows  that  one  can  float  over  their  coun 
terparts,  off  Wadham  Islands,  standing  up  thousands  of 
feet  in  sea,  as  these  do  in  air,  and  can  look  down  their 
VOL.  i.  2 


18  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

great  rugged  sides,  just  as  he  can  look  up  these? — I  don't 
think  you're  quite  insensible,"  he  added,  smiling ;  "  and 
some  of  these  days  people  will  be  coming  long  distances 
to  see  the  scenery  of  Newfoundland." 

"  You're  no  stranger  to  the  country,  sir,  I  see,"  said 
the  Parson.  "  Do  you  know,  at  the  first  glance,  I  took 
you  for  a  stray  church-clergyman;  only  I  couldn't  ac 
count  for  your  having  got  beyond  my  house  ?  " 

The  stranger,  who  was  certainly  both  a  very  English 
and  a  very  clerical-looking  man,  appeared  slightly  embar 
rassed. 

"  No,  I  am  not,"  said  he ;  "  but  I  ought  to  know  some 
thing  of  the  country,  for  a  good  deal  of  my  life  was 
passed  in  it." 

The  Parson,  as  if  involuntarily,  cast  a  more  searching 
glance  at  the  stranger.  He  hastened  to  apologize. 

"Pray,  excuse  me,"  said  he;  "I've  been  here  long 
enough  to  know  that  black  cassocks  are  not  so  plenty  as 
1  white-coats,'  *  or  capelin,  or  cod ;  and  I  jump  at  what 
looks  like  a  parson.  If  you'll  pardon  my  saying  so,  it's 
hard  to  take  you  for  any  thing  else." 

The  other  colored  again  slightly,  but  answered  with 
the  same  readiness  as  before, 

"/ought  rather  to  apologize  for  looking  so  much  like 
one  of  you ;  I  am  a  parson,  after  my  own  sort. — I  was 
walking,  a  few  minutes  ago,"  he  added,  changing  the 
subject,  "  with  a  man  that  interested  me  strongly.  Per 
haps  if  I  describe  him,  sir,  you  could  tell  me  who  he 
is." 

"  I  saw  him,"  said  Mr.  Wellon, — "  George  Barbury,  or 
Skipper  George,  as  we  call  him." 

"  I  thought  so ! "  said  the  other,  with  more  emphasis 
*  Young  seals. 


A  RARE  INTRUDER.  19 

than  seemed  to  belong  to  an  interest  created  by  a  few 
minutes'  conversation. 

"  You  know  something  of  our  people,  too  ?  "  said  the 
English  clergyman.  The  other  explained : — 

"  I  had  heard  of  him  and  his  family  before  I  came. — 
It  was  only  in  connection  with  another  family  that  I've 
reason  to  be  interested  in." 

If  some  suspicion  of  this  intrusive  (and  very  engag 
ing)  clergyman  had  made  its  way  into  the  heart  of  the 
retired  pastor,  it  would  not  have  been  strange ;  but  Mr. 
"VVellon's  manner  showed  no  jealousy  or  apprehension ; 
and,  whether  from  heartiness  of  disposition,  or  owing  to 
his  isolation  from  the  society  of  educated  men,  he  seemed 
more  socially  inclined  than  some  of  his  countrymen,  and 
of  his  reverend  brethren. 

"  If  you  intend  making  any  stay  among  us,"  he  said, 
"  I  shall  hope  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  in  my  house 
another  time.  You  must  give  me  a  chance  to  make  a 
churchman  of  you,  you  know,  if  you  come  to  '  molest  my 
ancient,  solitary  reign/ — At  any  rate,"  said  he,  correcting 
this  abrupt  and  summary  reference  to  conversion,  "to 
make  a  friend  of  you,  whatever  else  you  may  be." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  stranger  clergyman,  bowing ; 
"  neighbors  we  are  likely  to  be,  I  believe ;  and  if  you 
feel  as  kindly  when  you  know  more  of  me,"  (this  was 
emphasized  slightly,)  "  it  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to 
cultivate  the  acquaintance ; — but  I've  been  detaining  you 
too  long.  You  were  going  down :  may  I  walk  with  you 
as  far  as  our  ways  lie  together?  I  am  going  to  'the 
Backside,'  wherever  that  is." 

"  I  know  every  sheep  and  goat  track,"  answered  the 
Peterport  Parson ;  "  and  I  won't  scruple  to  make  you 
free  of  the  place  for  the  pleasure  of  your  company." 


20  THE  NEW  PKIEST. 

This  hospitable  speech  the  stranger  accepted  cordially. 

"  That  fisherman,"  he  continued  as  they  went,  "  has  a 
very  touching  way  of  telling  a  story,  and  draws  a  moral 
wonderfully." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  fisherman's  pastor,  "  and  he's  a  true 
man." 

"  He  was  giving  me  an  account  of  the  wreck  of  one 
James  Emerson,  which  you,  very  likely,  know  all  about : 
(I  can't  tell  it  as  he  told  it  me,  but)  '  the  man  was  going 
to  run  his  boat  into  a  passage  between  a  reef  and  the 
shore,  where  nothing  could  save  him  scarcely  from  de 
struction  ;  all  his  worldly  wealth  was  in  her,  and  his  son ; 
the  people  on  land  shouted  and  shrieked  to  him  through 
the  gale,  that  he'd  be  lost  (and  he  knew  the  danger  as 
well  as  they  did)  ;  suddenly  he  changed  his  mind  and 
went  about,  just  grazing  upon  the  very  edge  of  ruin,  and 
got  safe  off; — then,  when  all  was  plain  sailing,  ran  his 
boat  upon  a  rock,  made  a  total  wreck  of  her  and  all  that 
was  in  her,  and  he  and  his  son  were  barely  rescued  and 
brought  to  life.'  After  telling  that,  with  the  simplest 
touches  of  language,  this  was  his  moral,  in  his  own 
words :  '  'Ee  see,  sir,  'e  tempted  God,  agoun  out  o'  the 
plain,  right  w'y;  an'  so,  when  'e'd  agot  back  to  the 
w'y,  agen,  an'  thowt  'twas  all  easy,  then  God  let  un  go 
down,  and  brought  un  up  again,  athout  e'er  a  thing 
belonging  to  un  but  'e's  life  and  'e's  son's.' — That  moral 
was  wonderfully  drawn  ! " 

While  he  was  speaking  and  Mr.  Wellon  listening,  they 
had  stopped  in  their  walk.  As  they  moved  on  again, 
the  latter  said : — 

"  Skipper  George  puts  things  together  that  belong 
together,  as  principle  and  practice,  like  one  that  knows 
we  must  lay  out  our  best  wisdom  on  our  life." 


A  RARE  INTRUDER.  21 

His  companion  spoke  again,  earnestly  : — 

"  Few  men  would  have  drawn  that  moral,  though  all 
its  wisdom  is  only  seeing  simply;  indeed,  most  men 
would  never  have  drawn  any ;  but  undoubtedly,  Skipper 
George's  interpretation  is  the  true  one,  '  God  let  him  go 
down,'  and  not  for  coming  back,  but  for  having  gone 
astray. — He  saved  his  life.  It  was  not  easy  to  draw  that 
moral :  it  would  have  been  easy  to  say  that  the  man  had 
better  have  kept  on,  while  he  was  about  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Wellon,  "that  repentance,  coming 
across,  would  throw  common  minds  off  the  scent ;  George 
Barbury  isn't  so  easily  turned  aside." 

The  stranger  continued,  with  the  same  earnestness  as 
before. 

"  It  was  the  FATE  of  the  old  Drama ;  and  he  followed 
it  as  unerringly  as  the  Greek  tragedist.  It  needs  a  clear 
eye  to  see  how  it  comes  continually  into  our  lives." 

"  Skipper  George  would  never  think  of  any  Fate  but 
the  Will  of  God,"  said  his  pastor,  a  little  drily,  on  his 
behalf. 

"  I  mean  no  other,"  said  his  companion.  The  Fate  of 
the  Tragedists — seen  and  interpreted  by  a  Christian — is 
Skipper  George's  moral.  There  might  have  been  a  more 
tragical  illustration ;  but  the  rule  of  interpretation  is  the 
same.  Emerson's  wreck  was  a  special  providence ;  but 
who  will  try  to  wrench  apart  the  link  of  iron  that  this 
downright  reasoner  has  welded  between  it  and  the  wilful- 
ness  that  went  before  ?  The  experience  of  paganism 
and  the  Revelation  of  God  speak  to  the  same  purpose. 
Horace's 

'  Raro  antecedentem  scelestum,  Deseruit — Pcena,' 

and  the   Psalmist's  words   (in  the  English  translation), 

Evil  shall  hunt  the  wicked  person,  to  overthrow  him,' 


22  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

come  very  near  together.  To  see  the  illustration  clearly, 
in  a  special  case ;  to  assign  the  consequence,  as  in  this 
case,  to  its  true  antecedent — not  the  near,  but  the  remote 
— is  rare  wisdom ! " 

"  Oh !  yes,"  said  Mr.  Wellon,  "  only  I  keep  to  the  old 
terms :  l  providences,'  '  special  providence/  '  visitation,' 
and  so  on.  It's  good  that  Skipper  George  isn't  a  man  to 
be  jealous  of,  or  your  admiration  might  move  me." 

The  stranger  smiled.  As  there  was  often  to  be  noticed 
in  his  voice  something  like  an  habitual  sadness,  and  as 
there  lay  sadness,  or  something  very  like  it,  in  his  eye,  so 
his  smile  was  not  quite  without  it. 

Not  answering,  unless  by  the  smile,  he  asked, 

"  Is  his  daughter  like  him  ?  " 

"  She's  a  marvel ;  only,  one  who  knows  her  does  not 
marvel :  every  thing  seems  natural  and  easy  to  her.  I 
ought  to  inquire  whether  you've  any  designs  upon  the 
family?" 

"  Not  of  proselyting.  Oh !  no  :  none  of  any  sort  what 
ever.  I  had  heard  of  them  from  one  who  did  not  like 
them,  and  now  I'm  correcting  the  impression." 

As  they  passed  the  church,  in  their  walk,  the  stranger- 
clergyman  bestowed  upon  it  a  sufficient  degree  of  polite 
attention  to  satisfy  all  reasonable  requirements  (for  a 
parson  with  his  church  is  like  a  sailor  with  his  ship)  ; 
and  they  went  on,  talking  together. 

Often,  as  the  conversation  grew  animated,  they  stood 
still,  and  sometimes  were  interrupted  by  a  passing  col 
loquy  between  the  minister  and  members  of  his  flock. 
They  talked  of  many  things  and  lands  ;  and  the  stranger's 
language  made  the  readiest  and  most  fitting  dress  for  his 
thoughts.  If  he  spoke  of  woods, — such  as  bristle  this 
land,  or  overhang  the  sultry  tropics, — his  words  seemed 


A  RAKE  INTRUDER.  23 

to  rustle  with  leaves,  or  to  smell  of  the  freshness  of  the 
forest,  or  to  flicker  in  light,  and  fleck  the  earth  with  glow 
ing  shade.  The  waves  swelled  and  sparkled  in  his 
speech,  and  there  was  such  a  wealth  of  illustration,  that 
the  figures  with  which  he  set  off  what  was  thought  and 
spoken  of  seemed  to  light  down  in  bright  plumage  to  his 
hand  continually,  as  he  wanted  them.  Imagination,  which 
is  the  power  of  embodying  things  of  spirit,  and  spiritual 
izing  and  giving  life  to  material  things,  he  was  full  of. 
The  slight  sadness,  and  a  slight  now-and-then  withdrawal 
of  manner,  implied  that  he  was  not  altogether  taken  up 
in  what  he  spoke  or  heard. 

They  passed,  without  remembering,  the  first  and  chief 
path  leading  to  the  Backside,  and  then,  lower  down,  the 
second ;  and,  when  they  recalled  the  oversight,  the  Minis 
ter  turned  back  with  his  companion  and  put  him  in  the 
best  way,  and  they  parted  with  mutual  pleasant  words. 
Epictetus  put  himself  forward  for  a  share  in  this  demon 
stration,  and  was  caressed  in  turn. 

"  This  old  fellow  is  friendly,"  said  his  new  acquaint 
ance  ;  "  perhaps  we  shall  know  one  another  better,  some 
day." 


24  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER    III. 

MRS.   BARRfc    AND   MISS   FANNY   DARE. 

)RS.  BARR&,  though  she  had  been  here  for  a 
few  weeks  only,  all  the  harbor  knew  and  many 
loved;  partly  from  pity,  for  she  was  of  high 
breeding  and  young  and  stricken,  as  all  eyes  saw ;  partly 
from  admiration,  for  to  the  finer  eye,  she  was  one  that 
had  the  best  instincts  and  a  rare  mind  and  conscience,  so 
quick  and  true  and  thorough  were  her  thoughts  and  feel 
ings,  when  they  came  forth  of  her  sadness  and  seclusion. 

She  had  lost,  men  said,  the  husband  of  her  fresh  youth 
and  days  of  hope ;  and,  since  her  coming,  of  two  sweet 
children,  one,  the  boy,  had  gone  from  her  arms  and  from 
her  sight,  as  all  men  knew,  and  his  body  lay  with  other 
cold  earth  in  the  churchyard  of  Peterport. 

The  single  English  servant  whom  she  had  brought  with 
her  was  proof  at  least  against  the  unartful  curiosity  of 
planters'  wives  and  daughters.  What  was  generally  be 
lieved  or  surmised,  was  that  she  was  rich ;  that  she  had 
brought  a  letter  of  credit  to  the  house  of  Messrs.  Worner, 
Grose  &  Co.,  and  a  pastoral  letter  from  England  to  Mr. 
Wellon. 

Such,  then,  as  she  was,  and  so  living,  some  understood 
her ;  and  many  who  could  not  well  have  appreciated 
delicacy  and  refinement,  or  greatness  of  mind  and  soul, 


MRS.  BARRE  AND  MISS  FANNY  DARE.  25 

loved  her  because  so  patiently  and  lovingly  she  opened 
the  door  of  her  own  life,  and  came  forth  and  laid  her 
heart  to  theirs  ;  and  she  had  found  here  one  friend  whom 
she  might  have  chosen,  had  she  had  the  world  to  choose 
from.  This  was  Miss  Frances  Dare,  a  niece  of  Mr. 
Worner,  the  senior  of  the  Liverpool  firm,  living  here. 
Miss  Dare  was  a  fine,  spirited,  clever  English  girl  of 
twenty,  who  staid  here  just  as  quietly  as  if  she  were  not 
fitted  to  shine  in  a  larger  and  fairer  part  of  the  world 
than  this,  and  as  if  she  had  not  money  enough  (as  she 
was  reputed  to  have)  to  indulge  her  tastes  and  wishes. 
She  it  was  who  had  planted  and  trained  and  arranged 
the  growing  things  about  the  house  which  Mrs.  Barre 
occupied,  and  which  belonged  to  Mr.  Worner. 

The  two  ladies  had,  this  day,  when  Mr.  Wellon  called, 
walked  out  together  down  the  harbor. 

The  Minister,  after  leaving  his  companion,  walked  fast ; 
but  he  had  walked  for  half  a  mile  down  the  winding  road 
before  the  fluttering  garments  of  the  ladies  were  in  sight, 
as  they  lingered  for  the  loiterings  of  a  little  girl.  He 
overtook  them  at  a  place  where  the  hill  is  high,  at  one 
side  of  the  way,  and  goes  down,  on  the  other,  steep  and 
broken,  to  the  water ;  and  where,  at  every  turn,  there  is 
a  new  and  pretty  outlook  upon  the  harbor,  or  the  bay,  or 
the  picturesque  coves  along  the  road. 

Mrs.  Barre  first  heard  his  footsteps,  and  turned  round 
with  a  nervous  haste.  Sadness,  and  thought,  and  strength, 
and  womanly  gentleness,  mingled  in  her  great  dark  eyes, 
and  pale  face,  and  made  her  very  striking  and  interesting 
in  appearance — an  effect  which  was  increased  by  her 
more  than  common  height.  No  one,  almost,  could  look 
once  upon  her,  and  be  satisfied  with  looking  once. 

Miss  Fanny  Dare  was  both  handsome  and  elegant— 


26  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

rather  paler  than  the  standard  of  English  beauty,  but  a 
fit  subject  for  one  of  those  French  "  Etudes  a  deux  cray 
ons"  if  it  could  only  have  done  justice  to  the  life  of  her 
fine  features  and  glancing  eye,  and  wavy  chestnut  hair. 

Little  Mary  Barre,  a  sweet  child,  threw  her  arm,  like 
a  yoke,  around  the  great  dog's  neck,  where  it  was  almost 
hidden  in  the  long  black  locks. 

"  I'm  glad  not  to  miss  you,  Mrs.  Barre,"  said  the  Min 
ister,  after  the  salutations,  "  for  I'm  expecting  to  be  away 
to  St.  John's  to-morrow ;  I  can  only  try  to  show  my  sym 
pathy — any  other  benefit  I  can  scarcely  hope  to  render." 

Miss  Dare  led  her  two  livelier  companions  on,  leaving 
the  Minister  and  Mrs.  Barre  to  walk  more  slowly ;  and 
the  gentle  wind  on  shore,  and  the  silent  little  waves  in 
the  water,  going  the  same  way,  seemed  bearing  them 
company.  Th.e  child's  voice  was  the  only  sound  that 
went  forth  freely  into  the  wide  air. 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed  ! "  said  Mrs.  Barre."  I  feel  the  pres 
ence  of  God  with  His  ministers.  I  hope  I  may  always 
have  faith  enough  to  draw  the  benefit  from  it." 

"  It's  a  blessed  thing  for  us  and  for  those  to  whom  we 
are  sent,"  answered  Mr.  Wellon,  "  that  we  can  use  the 
Lord's  divine  words,  that  have  a  living  power  in  them 
selves  to  find  the  soul  and  comfort  it.  I  shouldn't  dare 
to  bring  any  others  to  one  who  bears  sorrow  as  you  do ; 
for  I  feel  that,  as  a  man,  I  must  learn,  instead  of  teach 
ing." 

"  My  thought  and  feeling,"  said  Mrs.  Barre,  answering 
to  one  thing  in  the  Minister's  sentence,  "  are  so  occupied, 
that  I  can  only  take  sorrow  in ;  I  cannot  be  taken  up  by 
it.  My  child  is  happy ; "  (tears  came  at  thought  of  him, 
however.) 

"  May  I  ask,  in  the  way  of  my  office,  whether  your 


MRS.  BARRE  AND   MISS  FANNY  DARE.  27 

occupation  is  with  a  former  grief?  Don't  answer  me,  if 
I  ask  too  bluntly." 

"  No ;  with  a  work  which  is  the  chief  part  of  my  life 
— almost  my  very  life.  I  haven't  told  you,  and  I  cannot 
tell  you  yet,  Mr.  Wellon,  what  one  thing  occupies  me 
always,  and  brought  me  to  this  place.  I  should  be  very 
glad  to  open  my  whole  heart  to  my  pastor,  if  I  could ; 
but  I  cannot  yet,  for  others  are  concerned,  or,  at  least, 
another,  and  I  have  no  right  to  communicate  his  affairs 
to  a  third  person,  even  a  clergyman." 

"  Only  let  me  sympathize  and  be  of  what  service  to 
you  I  can,"  said  the  Minister ;  "  and  don't  think  that  I 
shall  complain  of  the  measure  of  confidence  you  may 
give  me." 

Miss  Dare  and  her  two  companions  had  drawn  aside 
from  the  road  to  a  shoulder  of  rocky  ground,  ending  in 
cliff ;  and  stood  beneath  a  flake,  one  of  whose  posts  went 
up  beside  them.  As  the  Minister  came  near  with  Mrs. 
Barre,  Miss  Dare  invited  them,  by  a  silent  gesture,  to 
look  from  the  spot  where  she  had  been  standing. 

The  place  was  like  a  balcony ;  in  front  one  could  see 
down  the  shore  of  the  harbor  along  the  sea-face  of  Whit- 
monday  Hill,  and  over  more  than  one  little  settlement ; 
and  out  in  the  bay  to  Belle-Isle  and  the  South  Shore,  and 
down  towards  Cape  St.  Francis.  It  was  to  a  nearer 
prospect  that  she  pointed. 

"  Isn't  she  a  dear  thing  ? "  she  asked,  after  allowing 
them  a  moment  to  see  the  sight,  which,  as  it  has  to  do 
with  our  story,  our  reader  shall  see,  by-and-by. 

"  Lucy  Barbury  and  little  Janie ! "  said  the  Minister, 
looking  genially  down.  "  Yes ;  if  any  thing  can  make 
good  Skipper  George's  loss,  his  daughter  may."  Mrs. 
Barre  moved  a  little  further  on,  after  looking  down,  and 
stood  apart. 


28  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"Don't  let  her  see  us,"  said  the  pretty  exhibitress 
eagerly,"  or  it  will  break  up  my  scene ;  but  musn't  we 
get  the  school  for  her,  and  have  her  teaching,  as  she  de 
serves?  I  want  her  off  my  hands,  before  she  knows 
more  than  I  do.  As  for  the  schoolmaster  and  mistress, 
poor  things,  I  fancy  they  look  upon  her  performances 
in  learning  much  as  the  hen  did  upon  the  duck's  taking  to 
the  water,  when  she  was  showing  him  how  to  walk." 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Wellon,  "  when 
she's  old  enough." 

"  Ah !  Mr.  Wellon ;  her  head's  old  enough  inside,  if 
not  outside ;  and  what  are  you  to  do  with  her  in  two  or 
three  years'  waiting  ?  Besides,  I  want  to  see  it,  and  I 
probably  shan't  be  here  by  that  time."  (A  graver  ex 
pression  came  near  occupying  her  face  at  these  words. 
She  kept  it  out,  and  went  on  speaking.)  "  You  must  put 
the  Smallgroves  into  the  Newfoundland  Society's  school 
at  Indian  Point,  and  we'll  support  our  own  here,  and  she 
shall  teach  it."  The  Minister  smiled. 

"  How  would  she  take  on  the  gravity  and  authority  of 
it?"  said  he. 

"  Admirably  ;  I've  seen  her  at  it.  I  caught  her,  one 
day,  with  her  singing  class,  out  behind  the  school-house, 
on  that  stony  ground ;  about  twenty  children,  of  all 
sizes,  so  big,  and  so  big,  and  so  big,"  (graduating,  with 
her  hand,  in  the  air,)  "  practising  just  like  so  many  little 
regimental  drummer-boys,  but  all  with  their  hands  behind 
them.  Lucy's  back  was  towards  me,  and  of  course  the 
scholars'  faces  ;  and  so  forty  eyes  swung  right  round 
towards  me,  and  one  little  body  wriggled,  and  an  older 
girl  simpered,  arid  Lucy  knew  that  there  must  be  a 
looker-on ;  but,  like  a  little  disciplinarian,  she  brought 
them  all  straight  with  a  motion  or  two  of  her  hand,  and 


MRS.  BARRE   AND   MIS|   FANNY  DARE.  29 

then  turned  round  and  blushed  all  over  at  my  formidable 
presence,  as  if  it  had  been  his  Reverence,  the  Parson,  or 
her  Majesty,  the  Queen." 

"  Well,  we  must  see  what  we  can  do  about  it,"  said  the 
Parson,  looking  down  again  over  the  cliff.  "  And  what's 
this  about  young  Urston  ?  " 

"And  what  makes  you  think  of  young  Urston,  just 
now,  Mr.  Wellon  ?  "  asked  Miss  Dare,  reflecting,  archly, 
the  smile  with  which  the  Minister  had  uttered  his  ques 
tion.  Then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  con 
tinued  : — 

"  I  believe  the  Romish  priests,  at  Bay-Harbor,  have  a 
fancy  that  Lucy  is  an  emissary  of  the  Church,  assailing 
Popery  in  one  of  its  weak  points, — the  heart  of  the  young 
candidate  for  the  priesthood. — I  don't  speak  by  authority," 
she  added,  "  I  don't  think  it  ever  came  into  her  head." 

"Assailing  Popery,  in  his  person  ? — Nor  I ! "  answered 
the  Parson  sententiously,  and  with  his  cane  unsettling  a 
small  stone,  which  rattled  down  the  precipice  and  took 
a  new  place  on  a  patch  of  green  earth  below.  Little 
Mary  was  cautioning  her  four-footed  friend  not  to  fall  over 
the  cliffs  and  kill  himself,  because  he  pricked  up  his  ears 
and  watched  the  falling  stone  to  the  bottom. 

"  No ;  nor  assailing  James  Urston  ; "  said  Miss  Dare, 
smiling  again ;  taking,  at  the  same  time,  the  child's  hand 
into  her  own.  The  parson  also  smiled,  as  he  answered : — 

"  Well,  if  it  hasn't  come  into  her  head,  it's  one  thing, 
certainly ; — though  the  head  is  not  the  only  womanly  or 
gan  that  plots,  I  believe. — But  seriously,  I  hope  that  girl's 
happiness  will  never  be  involved  with  any  of  them ;  very 
seldom  any  good  comes  of  it." 

"  You  put  him  quite  out  of  the  case,  as  if  it  were  not 
possible  that  his  happiness  could  be  involved,  or  as  if  it 


30  THE  ^EW  PRIEST. 

were  not  worth  considering.  He's  said  to  be  a  fine  young 
fellow,"  said  the  young  lady. 

"  But,  as  you  said,  he's  not  only  a  Roman  Catholic,  but 
a  candidate  for  the  priesthood." 

"  No !  I'm  told  the  complaint  is,  that  he's  given  up  all 
thoughts  of  the  priesthood." 

"  That  leaves  him  a  Roman  Catholic,"  then  said  the 
Minister,  like  a  mathematician. 

"And  a  Roman  Catholic  can  be  converted,"  rejoined 
Miss  Dare. 

"  In  a  case  of  that  sort  it  must  be  made  sure,  before 
hand  ; — if  there  is  any  such  case," — he  answered. 

A  sigh  or  motion  of  Mrs.  Barre,  drew  their  attention 
to  her.  She  was  still  standing  apart,  as  if  to  give  free 
dom  to  the  conversation,  in  which  she  took  no  share ;  but 
she  looked  much  agitated. — Miss  Dare  proposed  to  her 
that  they  should  go  home ;  but  she  declined.  Her  friend 
turned  to  a  new  subject. 

"  Have  you  heard  of  the  American  that  intends  setting 
himself  up  in  Peterport  ?  "  she  asked  of  the  Minister. 

"  No,  I  haven't ; "  answered  Mr.  Wellon,  again  looking 
down  from  his  height,  and  busy  with  his  cane :  "  in  what 
capacity  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  in  a  multifarious  character, — chiefly  as  a  trader, 
I  think,  but  with  a  magic  lantern,  or  some  such  thing,  in 
reserve,  to, turn  lecturer  with,  on  occasion." 

"  No ;  I  hadn't  heard  of  him ;  but  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
haven't  escorted  in  another  new-comer  that  bodes  less 
good.  You  know  we're  to  have  a  Romish  priest  here ; 
I've  just  walked  down  with  a  clergyman  of  some  sort, 
and  very  likely,  the  very  man.  He  isn't  altogether  like 
it ;  but  I  can't  think  what  else  he  is.  He  reminded  me, 
too,  of  some  one ;  I  can't  think  whom." 


MRS.  BARRE  AND   MISS  FANNY  DARE.  31 

"  What  sort  of  person  is  he,  Mr.  Wellon  ?  I  never  saw 
one  of  his  kind,"  said  Miss  Dare. 

"  Very  handsome ;  very  elegant ;  very  interesting  :  with 
one  of  the  most  wonderful  tongues  I  ever  heard. — I  shall 
have  to  look  to  my  flock : — especially  those  members  of  it 
that  feel  a  friendly  interest  in  Roman  Catholics :  Eh, 
Miss  Fanny  ?  " 

"Yes,  it  is  he!"  said  Mrs.  Barre ; — "then  he  has 
come ! " 

She  was  apparently  endeavouring  to  keep  down  a  very 
strong  excitement. 

Her  two  companions  turned  in  surprise ;  Fanny  Dare's 
lips  being  just  on  the  point  of  speaking. 

"  Why !  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  asked  the  Minister. 

"  Yes ; "  she  said. — She  was  very  much  agitated.  Be 
fore  either  of  her  companions  spoke,  she  added,  "  We're 
nearly  related ;  but  religion  has  separated  us." 

The  minister  and  Miss  Dare  may,  in  their  minds,  have 
connected  her  own  recent  coming  with  that  of  the  Romish 
priest. — There  was  an  embarrassed  pause.  Mrs.  Barre 
spoke  again : — 

"  I  knew  that  he  was  coming,  and  expected  him ; "  she 
said.  "  You  won't  wonder,  Mr.  Wellon,  when  you  know 
more  about  us,  as  you  will,  one  day ;  but  don't  be  afraid 
of  me.  Your  English  letters  are  from  those  who  know  me 
and  my  history ;  and  whatever  may  pass  between  me  and 
this  gentleman,  Father  Debree, — if  any  thing," — (she 
paused,  almost  as  if  she  should  not  be  able  to  go  on,) 
"  there  cannot  be  any  danger  to  my  profession.  It  has 
been  tried  before. — You  won't  suspect  me  ?  "  and  she  gave 
him  her  hand. 

"  Certainly  not  ; "  said  the  straightforward  Parson. 
"  Only  let  me  know  whatever  I  can  do  for  you." 


32  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  Thank  you  !  I  will.  I've  got  a  work  to  do ; — or  to 
work  at,  if  I  never  do  it ; — for  it  may  wear  out  my  life. — 
There's  always  heart-work  with  a  woman,  you  know." 

Some  great,  strong  stream  of  life  seemed  to  be  flowing 
in  her,  of  which  one  might  catch  a  glimpse  through  her 
eyes,  and  of  which  one  might  hear  the  sound  in  her 
words. 

"  We  must  be  sure  that  it  is  our  work,"  said  the  minis 
ter  gently,  "  before  we  undertake  what  may  wear  out  our 
life." 

Mrs.  Barre  answered  thoughtfully,  though  without  a 
pause, 

"  In  my  case  it  cannot  be  mistaken.  You  will  say  so, 
by-and-by,  I'm  sure. — I  have  told  you  that  I  am  nearly 
related  to  Father  Debree,"  she  said,  hesitating  a  little  at 
the  name, — as  she  had  also  hesitated  before,  "  I'm  deeply 
interested,  too.  Does  he  look  well  and  happy  ?  " 

"  He  has  rather  a  sad  look,"  said  the  Minister. 

"  Has  he  ? "  she  asked.  "  He  hadn't,  always ;  but  I 
can't  say  that  I  am  sorry  if  he's  not  altogether  happy." 
Her  own  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"I  must  go  home,  I  believe,"  she  said,  "I  haven't 
learned  not  to  yield  to  my  feelings,  in  spite  of  all  my 
schooling."  She  called  her  child  to  her,  and  hurriedly 
took  leave.  Miss  Dare  did  not  stay. 

The  two  ladies  walked  up  the  road,  with  little  Mary ; 
the  child  persuading  her  shaggy  friend  to  go  a  few  steps 
in  her  company.  Mr.  Wellon  continued  his  walk ;  and 
the  dog,  slipping  his  head  out  from  under  Mary's  arm, 
turned  and  trotted  dignifiedly  after  his  master. 


A  PRETTY  SCENE  AND  ITS  BREAKING-UP.        33 


CHAPTER    IV. 

A   PRETTY   SCENE   AND    ITS    BREAKING-UP. 

i  HIS  Whitmonday  Hill,  in  Peterport,  of  which 
mention  was  made  in  the  last  chapter,  is,  on  its 
travelled  face,  steep  enough  for  a  practised  beast 
(if  there  were  such  in  Peterport)  to  slide  down,  and  on  the 
water  side,  stands  up  three  hundred  feet  and  more  of  al 
most  sheer  precipice — gravel,  and  rock,  and  patches  of 
dry  grass.  On  that  side,  at  the  bottom,  it  has  an  edging 
of  rounded  detached  rocks,  with  here  and  there  among 
them  a  bit  of  gravel  that  has  fallen  down  and  lodged. 
This  edging  stretches  along  as  debatable  ground  between 
the  hill  and  the  sea,  to  Daughter's  Dock,  (the  little  cove 
where  a  "  Seventh  Daughter"  lives,)  and,  when  the  water 
is  high,  is  plashed  and  played  with  by  the  waves,  as  on  this 
summer's  afternoon  on  which  we  bring  the  reader  to  it. 

With  a  fine,  breeze  in  from  the  eastward,  and  the  bright 
sun  shining  from  half  way  down  the  sky,  the  waters  came 
in  glad  crowds,  up  the  harbor,  and  ran  races  along  the 
cliffs.  Here  and  there  a  little  in-coming  sail  was  rising 
and  falling  smoothly  and  silently,  as  the  loaded  punt 
floated  before  the  wind. 

The  scene,  to  a  sympathetic  eye,  was  a  pretty  one  of 
home  life  ;  but  the  prettiest  part  of  it  was  on  the  water- 
edge  of  Whitmonday  Hill.  At  the  upper  end  of  it 


34  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

(speaking  harbor-wise,  and  meaning  towards  the  inner  part 
of  the  harbor)  -stood  a  little  stage — a  rude  house  for  head 
ing  and  splitting  and  salting  fish — whose  open  doorway 
showed  an  inviting  shade,  of  which  the  moral  effect 
was  heightened  by  the  sylvan  nature  of  the  house  itself, 
made  up  as  it  was  of  boughs  of  fir,  though  withered  and 
red.  A  fisherman  and  his  wife  had  just  taken  in  the 
catch  of  fish  from  a  punt  at  the  stage's  ladder,  and  a 
pretty  girl,  of  some  seventeen  years,  was  towing  the  un 
loaded  boat  along  beside  the  hill,  by  a  rope  laid  over  her 
shoulder,  while  a  little  thing  of  four  or  five  years  old,  on 
board,  was  tugging  with  an  oar  at  the  stern,  to  keep  the 
boat's  head  off  shore. 

The  older  girl  was  one  whose  beauty  is  not  of  any 
classic  kind,  and  yet  is  beauty,  being  of  a  young  life, 
healthy  and  strong,  but  quiet  and  deep,  to  which  features 
and  form  give  thorough  expression  and  obedience.  She 
had  a  swelling,  springy  shape,  dark,  glancing  eyes, 
cheeks  glowing  with  quick  blood,  (the  figure  and  glance 
and  glowing  cheek  all  at  their  best  with  exercise,)  while 
masses  of  jetty  hair  were  lifted  and  let  fall  by  the  wind 
from  below  the  cap,  which  she  wore  like  all  girls  in  her 
country.  Her  dress  was  different  from  the  common  only 
in  the  tastefulness  that  belongs  to  such  a  person,  and  had 
now  a  grace  more  than  ever,  as  it  waved  and  fluttered  in 
the  wind  and  partook  of  the  life  of  the  wearer.  She 
wore  a  frock  of  dark  blue,  caught  up  a  little  in  front,  and 
showing  a  white  woollen  petticoat ;  a  kerchief  of  pretty 
colors  was  tied  very  becomingly  over  her  bosom,  and  a 
bright  red  ribbon  along  the  front  of  her  cap  lay  among 
her  black  hair.  Her  shoes  and  stockings  were  rolled  up 
in  her  apron,  while  her  blue-veined  feet — not  large  nor 
small,  but  smooth  and  well-shaped — clung  to  the  uneven 


A  PRETTY  SCENE   AND  ITS  BREAKING-UP.        35 

surfaces  of  the  rocks,  and  strained  upon  them,  as  she 
walked  against  the  wind  and  sprang  from  one  rock  to 
another;  and  they  dipped  now  and  then  in  the  water,  as 
the  little  waves  splashed  up.  Over  all,  both  face  and 
figure,  was  a  grace  of  innocent,  modest  maidenhood. 

Nothing  could  be  prettier  or  more  picturesque  than 
this  little  group.  The  elder  girl,  who  dragged  the  boat, 
skirted  the  edge  of  the  water  with  the  lightness  of  one 
of  those  little  beach  birds,  that,  with  a  shadow  and  a  re 
flection  in  the  moist  sand  running  along  beside  it,  alter 
nately  follows  and  retreats  from  the  retreating  and 
advancing  waves  ;  and  the  little  navigator,  towards  whom 
her  sister  continually  turned,  had  her  plump  little  legs,  in 
their  wrinkled  yarn  stockings,  and  her  well-shod  feet  set 
apart  to  keep  her  balance,  while  her  head  was  tightly 
covered  in  a  white  cap,  and  a  kerchief  with  a  silk  fringe 
went  round  her  neck  and  down  the  back  of  her  serge 
gown,  so  that  one  could  not  but  smile  at  her  and  her 
work.  At  intervals  she  prattled,  and  for  longer  intervals 
she  worked  with  all  earnest  gravity  in  silence. 

There  was  another  beauty  about  these  girls  to  those 
who  knew  them,  as  will  appear  in  its  time. 

Splash !  went  the  water  against  the  bow,  spattering 
every  thing,  and  among  other  things,  the  little  white- 
capped  head  and  silk  kerchief  and  serge  gown  of  the 
sculler  at  the  stern.  Anon  a  wave  came  up  from  be 
neath  the  keel,  and,  thrusting  a  sudden  shoulder  under 
the  blade  of  her  oar,  would  lift  it  up  out  of  the  scull-hole 
in  spite  of  her,  and  be  off.  Then  she  would  grasp  her 
weapon  womanfully,  and  get  it  under  her  arm,  and  lay  it 
laboriously  into  its  place  again.  In  England  one  may 
see  the  father's  horse  going  to  stable  with  a  young  child 
on  its  back  and  another  walking  beside.  Here  they  were 


36  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

taking  the  punt  to  a  snug  place,  where  she  was  to  be 
hauled  up  for  the  night. 

"Pull!    Pull! 
For  a  good  cap-full 
Out  of  the  great  deep  sea,  Oh !  " 

cried  the  maiden  in  a  mellow,  musical  voice,  (evidently 
for  the  little  one,  for  she  herself  had  her  own  thoughts, 
no  doubt ;)  and  as  the  great  deep  sea  illustrated  the  song, 
practically,  the  latter  repeated,  laughing,  (with  a  some 
what  staid  and  moderate  merriment,)  and  in  the  broken 
speech  of  a  child,  working  very  hard, 

"  Oh !  what  a  good  cap-full 
Out  of  'a  g'eat  deep  seeo !  " 

and  she  was  very  near  losing  her  oar  again. 

As  they  came  on  in  this  way,  the  elder  sister  helping 
and  sharing  the  child's  laborious  frolic,  and  at  the  moment 
looking  back,  a  dark,  winged  thing  flew  across  the  path. 

"  Oh !  my  s'awl,  Lucy ! "  exclaimed  the  little  one  in  a 
hopeless  voice,  but  tugging,  nevertheless,  at  her  oar, 
while  she  looked  up  sadly  to  where  the  black  kerchief 
with  the  silk  fringe  which  she  claimed  as  a  shawl  had 
been  whirled  by  the  wind,  and  had  caught  and  fastened 
upon  the  prickly  leaves  of  a  juniper  bush,  that  alone  of 
all  trees  occupied  the  steep. 

"  My  "pooty  s'awl  you  gave  me ! "  she  cried  again, 
working  harder  than  ever  at  the  oar. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Janie,"  said  her  sister  ;  "  we'll  get  it  again, 
I  think  ; "  but  as  they  looked  up,  the  hill  was  a  sheer  steep, 
arid  the  gravel  very  loose. 

Poor  little  Janie,  with  her  distracted  thoughts,  and 
without  the  draught  of  the  rope,  which  Lucy  held  slack- 


A  PRETTY   SCENE   AND   ITS   BREAKING-UP.         37 

ened  as  she  lingered  over  the  mishap,  could  not  keep  the 
boat  off,  and  it  came  ashore.  The  elder  sister  came  up 
to  comfort  her. 

"  Janie,  shall  I  shove  you  out  again  ?  "  she  asked,  "  or 
shall  I  jump  in  and  scull  you  round  ?  " 

Before  the  little  girl  could  answer,  the  scene  which 
they  had  had  so  much  to  themselves  was  broken  in  upon. 

"  Look  out,  man  !  "  was  shouted  in  a  sharp,  quick  tone 
from  above. 

"  Why,  James ! "  exclaimed  Lucy,  looking  up  the 
loose-gravelled  precipice.  There  stood,  at  the  moment, 
far  up,  a  young  man  poised  upon  it,  while  an  older  one 
leaned  over  the  upper  edge.  The  loose  gravel  came  rat 
tling  down  to  the  pathway  of  rocks  over  which  the  maiden 
had  been  walking. 

"  Jump  wide,  if  you  must !  "  the  man  at  the  top  called 
out  again,  in  the  clear,  quick  way  of  men  accustomed  to 
shipboard  work. 

In  an  instant  the  elder  sister  shoved  the  boat  forth 
toward  the  clear  water,  and  sprang  into  it,  leaving  Janie's 
oar,  which  had  floated  away ;  got  the  other  into  the  scull- 
hole,  and  worked  the  punt  out  from  the  shore. 

The  waves  came  playing,  up  to  the  rocks  that  edged 
the  precipice's  foot,  waiting  for  the  young  man  who  had 
no  way  to  go  but  downward ;  and  who,  though  we  have 
been  long,  had  not  been  able  to  stand  still  an  instant. 

Down  he  came,  like  an  avalanche ;  the  cheaty  gravel 
giving  way  from  his  feet ;  all  the  on-lookers  breathless, 
above  and  below ;  the  cold  waves  frolicking  on  the  sur 
face  of  the  deep  sea ; — but  the  young  man  did  not  give 
himself  up  to  the  usual  fortune  of  heroines  or  heroes. 

With  a  strong  will  he  conquered  what  could  almost  be 
called  a  fall,  (so  steep  was  the  precipice  down  which  he 


38  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

came,)  and  controlled  it  as  if  he  had  been  winged.  He 
went  down  aslant,  the  gravel  rattling  down  at  every 
slight  touch  of  his  foot  on  the  face  of  the  steep,  and  ere 
one  could  tell  how,  he  was  three  hundred  yards  away,  at 
the  edge  of  the  water  on  the  little  beach  beyond  the  great 
hill.  Before  het  reached  the  rocks  at  the  further  end  he 
had  checked  himself,  and  not  even  the  shallow  waters  on 
the  sand  had  so  much  as  touched  his  feet. 

"  Well  done !  "  said  the  man — a  fisherman  very  shab 
bily  dressed — who  was  still  standing  at  the  top  against  the 
sky.  He  saw  the  danger  at  an  end,  and  then,  turning, 
went  away.  Now,  therefore,  the  scene  without  the  dan 
ger  had  only  beauty  in  it.  The  waves  ran  away  from 
the  wind,  sparkling  in  the  sunlight ;  a  little  sail  was  flit 
ting  over  the  farther  water ;  and  the  maiden,  whose 
glancing  eye  had  followed  the  young  man's  giddy  run, 
had  a  new  color  in  her  cheek.  She  had  waited  among 
the  crowd  of  mischievous  waves  at  a  few  fathoms'  length 
from  the  shore,  and  now  that  it  was  clear  that  he  needed 
no  help,  she  turned  again  her  little  vessel  toward  the 
land.  Midway  to  the  rocks  floated  a  straw  hat,  half-sunk, 
which  the  wind  had  snatched  from  the  young  man's  head 
as  he  came  down,  and  thrown  there. 

"  Min'ter's  dog !  "  cried  little  Janie,  attracted  now  by  the 
approach  of  the  great  black  fellow  panting  over  the  wave- 
tops,  his  long  black  hair  floating  wide.  The  young  man 
who  had  just  taken  the  wondrous  flight  had  now  seated 
himself,  flushed  and  panting,  on  one  of  the  rocks.  As 
the  dog  neared  the  hat,  Lucy  was  too  quick  for  him,  and 
drew  it,  dripping,  into  the  boat. 

"  I'll  leave  the  oar  for  him,"  she  said ;  and  the  brave 
brute,  having  turned  up  a  kindly  face  to  her,  made  for  the 
floating  oar,  and,  seizing  it  by  the  hand-part,  bore  up 


A  PRETTY  SCENE  AND  ITS  BREAKING-UP.        39 

with  it  against  both  wind  and  tide  toward  the  little  beach. 
That  was  the  place,  also,  of  the  punt's  destination,  toward 
which  it  was  now  urged  gracefully  by  the  maiden  who 
stood  sideways  in  it,  as  men  stand  at  sculling,  and  looked 
forward  with  bright  eye  and  lips  apart  and  flowing  hair. 

A  company  of  neighbors  had  gathered  hastily  at  the 
beach,  four  or  five  in  number,  and  near  them  stood  the 
Minister ;  and  in  all  faces  were  excitement  and  curiosity. 
Before  her  boat  touched  the  sand,  Lucy  seated  herself 
upon  a  thwart  and  modestly  put  on  her  shoes.  The  per 
former  of  the  late  feat  still  sat  apart,  getting  his  breath 
again. 

"  I  don't  see  the  man  that  staid  at  the  top  of  the  hill," 
said  the  Minister. 

"  'Twas  Willum  Ladford,  sir ;  'e  Ve  gone  away,  see- 
munly.  'Ee  know  'e's  very  quite,  and  keeps  to  'isself, 
mostly,"  answered  one  of  the  women  who  were  eagerly 
waiting  for  the  explanation  of  the  strange  things  that 
they  had  just  seen. 

"  Did  'e  push  un  off,  do  'ee  think,  Prude  ?  "  inquired 
one  of  the  most  eager. 

"  Oh,  no  !  what  would  'e  push  un  for  ?  Will  Ladford's 
too  sober  for  pl'y,  an  'e's  too  paceable  for  mischief." 

The  short  colloquy  was  deserted  hurriedly,  as  the  boat 
came  sliding  up  the  beach,  and  its  fair  sailor  leaped 
blushing  from  its  gunwale  to  the  sand.  Lucy,  first  curt 
seying  to  the  Minister,  was  bearing  the  trophy  rescued 
from  the  water,  to  its  owner,  when  little  Janie  was  in 
stantly  beset  by  two  or  three  of  the  most  enthusiastic 
inquirers  after  truth,  who  questioned  her,  half  aside,  and 
half  with  a  view  to  being  overheard. 

"  Where  did  Mr.  Urston  come  from,  Janie  ?  " — "  What 
was  'e  doun  there,  fust  goun  off?  " — "  What  made  un  go 


40  THE   NEW  PRIEST. 

down  ?  "  were  the  assaults  of  three  several  female  minds 
at  the  subject.  Little  Janie  was  bewildered. 

"He  couldn't  keep  his  footing,"  said  Lucy,  hearing 
and  answering,  although  she  had  no  more  information 
than  the  questioners  might  have  had; — a  circumstance 
that  perhaps  did  not  occur  to  her. 

"  The  road's  wide  enough  to  walk  on,  athout  atumblin 
over,  is  n'  'e  ?  "  said  one  of  the  questioners,  in  a  kind  of 
side-speculation,  with  a  good-natured  laugh  and  pleasant 
voice. 

"  But  I  don't  think  he  tumbled  over  the  top,"  ventured 
Lucy,  again,  who  saw  the  absurdity  of  his  not  being  able 
to  keep  his  footing  on  a  highway  whose  width  reached 
the  stately  dimension  of  ten  (at  least,  eight)  feet,  statute 
measure,  and  kindly  wished  to  protect  his  reputation  from 
a  charge  of  such  preposterous  clumsiness. 

The  questioner  had  been  longer  in  the  world  than  our 
young  maiden ;  and  she  advanced  with  her  next  question, 
in  this  way : — 

"  Oh !  'e  was  n'  walkin  on  the  road,  was  'e  ?  but  pleas- 
urin'  down  the  side ; "  and  she  looked  up  the  great  outline 
of  the  hill,  as  loose  and  gravelly  as  a  freshly-made  glacis, 
but  steeper  than  a  Dutch  roof.  The  allusion  threw  the 
company  of  women  (who  followed,  at  the  same  time,  the 
direction  of  her  eyes)  into  a  sudden  laugh ;  Lucy,  also, 
laughed  innocently,  and  looked  abashed ;  and  the  Minis 
ter,  who  had  not  yet  resumed  his  walk,  smiled  with  them. 

This  last  effect  of  her  wit  was  not  unobserved  by  the 
speaker,  who  turned  again  to  her  charge,  with  new  spirit, 
addressing  the  neighbor-women : — 

"  What  do  'ee  think  'e  sid,*  to  make  un  be  in  such  a 
tarrible"  hurry  to  git  down  ?  Do  'ee  think,  mubbe,  it  was 
*  saw. 


A  PRETTY  SCENE  AND  ITS  BREAKING-UP.         41 

a  fish  'e  sid  ?  Could  n'  'ave  abin  he  know'd  e'er  a  body 
was  a  walkun  down  on  the  rocks  ?  " 

But  like  the  mouse  who  gnawed  the  toils  in  which  the 
lion  was  inclosed,  an  unexpected  deliverer  came  to  Lucy's 
aid,  just  as,  in  pretty  confusion,  and  blushing,  she  had 
turned  to  busy  herself  about  her  little  sister,  away  from 
the  embarrassment  of  this  unexpected  and  hitherto  unde 
tected  attack.  Urston  was  just  coming  toward  her  from 
his  resting-place  upon  the  rock ;  but  it  was  little  Janie 
that  brought  the  rescue. 

"I  think,"  said  she,  very  gravely  and  sententiously, 
"  'e  wanted  to  get  my  s'awl." 

"  You  funny  little  maid ! "  cried  her  elder  sister,  laughing. 

"  And  'e  failed  down ; "  continued  the  little  explorer  of 
causes,  to  make  her  statement  of  the  case  complete. 

"  Janie's  handkerchief  blew  up  against  the  little  tree 
on  the  hillside,  and  held  fast,"  explained  Lucy  to  the 
women,  who  had  interrupted  their  raillery,  and  with  their 
eyes  sought  further  explanation  ; — "  and  so  she  thinks  he 
was  trying  to  get  it,"  she  continued,  turning  on  him,  as 
he  came  up,  a  look  the  brighter  and  prettier  for  her  con 
fusion,  and  with  a  tone  as  if  she  were  near  thinking  that 
Janie's  was  the  true  explanation. 

Urston  did  not  look  like  a  fisherman,  though  he  wore 
the  blue  jacket  and  trowsers ;  and  his  eye  had  evidently 
been  familiar  with  other  things  besides  the  way  of  the 
wind  on  the  water,  and  the  "  lay  "  of  the  rocky  land.  At 
the  moment,  he  still  showed  in  his  face  the  excitement  of 
his  late  adventure,  and  breathed  hard  from  the  struggle 
by  which  he  had  conquered. 

"Thank  you,"  said  he,  looking  as  well  as  speaking, 
while  he  took  his  hat  from  the  fair  hand  that  bore  it. 
"  It  wasn't  my  fault  if  I  didn't  get  a  good  ducking,  myself." 


42  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  Why,  you  came  down  with  a  swoop,  like  a  sea-gull ! " 
said  the  Minister,  who  was  not  far  off;  "  how  you  ever 
managed  to  give  yourself  that  turn  in  to  the  beach,  I  don't 
know. — Your  crown  ought  to  be  made  of  something  better 
than  straw,  for  a  feat  like  that." 

"  I  suppose  it's  something,  when  you've  made  a  blunder, 
to  get  the  better  of  it,"  said  the  young  man,  modestly. 

"That's  the  way  the  best  part  of  us  is  brought  out, 
often,"  answered  the  Parson,  drawing  a  moral,  as  men  of 
his  cloth  will;  "but  if  you  always  manage  to  tumble 
down  as  strongly  and  safely  as  you  did  just  now,  you  can 
take  good  care  of  yourself  in  the  world." 

The  maiden's  bashful  eye  and  cheek  and  mouth  bright 
ened  and  quickened,  with  a  sweet  unconsciousness,  at 
this  compliment ;  but  there  were  other  interested  persons, 
who  did  not  forget  themselves. 

"  Did  'ee  get  my  s'awl  ?  "  inquired  little  Janie,  as  the 
Minister  walked  away,  to  the  road. 

The  young  man  smiled,  and,  putting  his  hand  into  his 
jacket-pocket,  drew  forth  and  spread  before  their  eyes 
the  missing  treasure,  and  then  returned  it  to  its  owner. 
She  took  it  with  joy  (and,  no  doubt,  thankfulness) ; 
but  her  countenance  fell,  as  she  remarked  that  "  it  was  all 
full  of  prickles ! " 

Some  one  of  the  women  made  (in  an  undertone, 
which  could  be  heard  at  some  distance)  her  comment, 
thus : — 

"  It's  my  thought  ef  Janie  had  n'  'ad  a  sister,  'e  wouldn' 
ha'  doned  it." 

At  or  about  the  utterance  of  this  speech,  Lucy  with 
drew,  with  Janie,  along  the  path  which  she  had  been 
traversing  a  short  time  before. 

At  the  same  instant,  the  dog,  having  brought  his  charge 


A  PRETTY  SCENE  AND  ITS  BREAKING-UP.         43 

safe  to  land  and  carried  it  up  high  and  dry  upon  the 
beach,  and  left  it  there,  came  back  to  perform  his  toilet 
where  he  could  have  the  society  and  receive  the  con 
gratulations  of  his  friends.  He  took  his  position  near  the 
last  speaker,  and,  with  special  precision,  spattered  her  all 
over,  from  head  to  foot.  Those  in  her  neighborhood  did 
not  quite  escape ;  and  the  gathering  dispersed,  with  good- 
natured  and  rather  noisy  precipitation. 

Epictetus,  for  his  part,  went  off,  also,  in  search  of  the 
Minister,  his  master. 

While  Urston  busied  himself  with  the  boat,  two  women, 
walking  away  more  deliberately  than  the  rest,  said,  one 
to  another : 

'*  Ef  'e  wants  to  go  a-courtun  e'er  a  maid  in  Peterport, 
'e  might  jes  so  well  look  a'  to'ther  side  o'  the  house,  to  my 
thinkin'." 

"  Ay,  as  come  after  Skipper  Georgie's  da'ghter,"  said 
her  neighbor. 

Young  Urston's  case  was  this :  his  father,  born  and 
bred  a  gentleman,  (as  was  said,  and  as  seemed  entirely 
likely,)  had,  as  others  like  him  have  done,  come,  young, 
to  Newfoundland,  and  become  a  planter.  He  had  mar 
ried  a  pretty  woman,  half-sister  of  Skipper  George's  wife, 
but  owing  to  difference  of  religion,  (the  Urstons  being 
Roman  Catholics,)  the  two  families  had  had  little  inter 
course. 

The  boy  grew  with  finer  instincts  and  quicker  faculties 
than  common ;  taking,  it  seemed,  from  both  parents  ;  for 
the  mother,  also,  was  not  only  a  fair  Irishwoman,  but  one 
of  feeling  and  spirit.  She  died  early ;  and,  while  she  was 
dying,  commended  the  fostering  of  her  child  to  an  attached 
servant ;  and  the  two  parents  devoted  him,  if  he  lived,  to 
the  priesthood. 


44  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

So,  at  the  age  of  twelve  or  thirteen  years,  Father 
O'Toole  had  taken  him  into  his  own  house,  made  him  at 
first  an  altar-boy,  taught  him  as  well  as  he  could,  and 
loved  him  abundantly.  He  had  no  difficulty  in  keeping 
the  boy's  mind  up  to  his  demands ;  but  after  some  time, 
(it  must  be  owned,)  it  would  have  required  an  effort 
which  Father  Terence  would  not  make,  to  keep  it  down 
to  his  limits;  for  the  boy  was  a  very  active  fellow,  in 
mind  and  body ;  and  when  he  had  gone  through  all  his 
spiritual  and  religious  exercises,  and  when  he  had  wrought 
out  all  the  work  that  his  director  could  put  before  him,  must, 
of  course,  do  something.  By  way  of  vent,  the  good  father 
connived  at  his  reading  any  solid-looking  books  which  he 
could  borrow  from  friendly  gentlemen  in  Bay-Harbor 
(and  the  youth  did  not  fancy  any  thing  lighter  than  his 
tory)  ;  Father  Terence,  also,  did  not  trouble  himself 
about  his  pupil's  slipping  off,  in  a  blue  jacket,  to  go  out 
upon  the  water : — an  indulgence  understood  to  be  an  occa 
sional  relaxation  for  the  mind. 

His  own  father  refreshed  the  learning  of  other  years, 
for  his  son's  sake,  and  taught  him  as  he  had  opportunity. 
At  seventeen  years  of  age,  the  young  candidate  was  to 
have  gone  to  France  and  Rome,  to  finish  his  preparation ; 
but  he  was  now  a  year  and  a  half  beyond  that  age ;  for, 
just  as  he  came  to  it,  a  new  priest,  whose  learning  and 
abilities  were  very  highly  spoken  of,  replaced  the  assist 
ant  in  the  Mission  at  Bay-Harbor,  and,  getting  a  good 
many  things  into  his  hands,  got  this  young  man  away 
from  Father  Terence,  gave  some  weeks  to  weaning  the 
pupil  from  his  old  master,  some  months  to  attaching  him 
to  himself,  got  a  direction  from  the  Bishop  that  James 
should  stay  with  him  as  long  as  he  staid  in  Bay-Harbor, 
(which  was  expected  to  be  in  all  two  years,)  and  gave 


A  PRETTY  SCENE  AND  ITS  BREAKING-UP.         45 

the  young  pupil  quite  new  notions  of  study  and  learning. 
Young  Urston  was  a  generous  scholar,  who  took  his 
heart  with  him  into  his  work.  But  by  and  by  there 
came  a  change. 

The  priest's  severity  of  discipline  increased ;  the  youth's 
attachment  to  his  director  wasted.  There  was  to  be  no 
slipping  off  the  long  coat  for  the  short,  no  escaping  to 
the  water,  no  visiting  at  home,  no  putting  off  or  hurrying 
of  duties,  religious  or  scholastic ;  the  confessional,  which 
Father  Terence  had  at  first  negligently  used  with  his 
pupil,  and  disused,  soon,  was  insisted  on,  and  penances 
exacted  strictly. 

Suddenly,  Father  Nicholas  went  up  to  St.  John's ;  his 
absence  was  prolonged,  from  month  to  month,  for  many 
months  (the  old  assistant  coming  back) ;  Father  Ter 
ence,  who  had  felt  hurt,  did  not  attempt  to  resume  any 
oversight  over  the  stolen  youth,  though  the  kind-hearted 
man  restored  the  old  relations  of  love; — and,  at  last, 
young  Urston  withdrew  altogether,  took  to  fishing,  (read 
ing  when  he  could,)  and  declared  his  purpose  of  staying 
where  he  was. 

This  resolution  most  bitterly  grieved  his  nurse,  who 
had  shown  her  disappointment  in  word  and  deed,  until 
the  father  reduced  her,  gradually,  to  an  unwilling  self- 
restraint.  She  expected  Father  Nicholas  to  bring  all 
right,  again ;  and,  as  Father  Nicholas  was  understood  to 
master  every  thing  and  person  that  he  had  to  do  with, 
her  confidence  seemed  well-founded ;  but  the  time  fixed 
for  the  candidate's  going  abroad  was  just  at  hand :  the 
priest  had  been  in  Bay-Harbor,  again,  for  three  months, 
had  had  several  interviews  with  the  recusant,  but  no 
change  appeared. 


46  THE  NEW  PKIEST. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A   WALK   AND    THE    END    OP   IT. 

i  HE  acquaintance  between  the  young  and  inter 
esting  widow  and  Miss  Dare  had  immediately, 
from  the  outset,  become  an  intimacy;  and  the 
latter  was  almost  as  much  at  home  in  Mrs.  Barre's  house 
as  at  her  aunt's.  Sometimes  she  brought  her  needle-work, 
sometimes  a  book,  and  sometimes  she  came  empty-handed. 

Mrs.  Barre's  favorite  seat  was  at  her  chamber-window, 
that  faced  the  west,  and  looked  up  the  harbor  along  the 
road. 

The  chamber  was  a  very  plain  one,  but  it  had  a  few 
pretty  pieces  of  furniture,  and  some  smaller  things,  that 
were  quite  elegant. 

A  Bible  lay — generally  open — on  a  little  table,  with 
her  Common  Prayer-Book  and  a  few  other  books. 

Here  she  was  sitting,  as  usual,  a  day  or  two  later  than 
the  date  of  the  last  chapter,  when  her  friend  came  in. 

"  Can  I  persuade  you  out,  this  morning  ?  "  asked  Miss 
Dare  ;  "  it's  a  lovely  day." 

Mrs.  Barre  seemed  to  be  considering  or  absent-minded 
for  a  moment ;  she  then  hastily  accepted  the  invitation. 

"You  need  the  fresh  air;  your  hands  tremble,"  said 
her  friend,  taking  one  of  them  and  kissing  it. 

"  Do  they  ?     My  heart  trembles,  too,  Fanny." 


A  WALK  AND   THE  END   OF  IT.  47 

Mrs.  Barre  exerted  herself  to  smile  as  she  spoke.  She 
then  put  on  her  shawl  and  bonnet,  and  they  went  forth  to 
their  walk. 

It  was,  as  Miss  Dare  had  said,  a  delightful  day,  without 
wind,  and  with  an  atmosphere  into  which  the  spicy  fra 
grance  of  the  little  grove  of  firs,  near  Mrs.  Barre's  house, 
and  the  coolness  of  the  salt  water,  spread  themselves 
gently  around,  and  in  which  far-off  things  had  about  them 
a  dreamy  haze.  The  walking  seemed  to  give  new  life  to 
Mrs.  Barre  ;  and  instead  of  shortly  proposing  to  turn 
back,  she  only  asked,  at  Marchant's  Cove,  (a  half  mile's 
distance  from  home,)  whether  her  companion  felt  tired ; 
and  being  answered  with  a  hearty  "  No,"  kept  on,  without 
turning  or  flagging,  beyond  sweep  of  road,  hill,  cove,  pass 
in  the  rocks,  the  whole  length  of  the  harbor  to  Mad 
Cove. 

The  two  ladies  did  not  talk  much  as  they  went,  but 
they  talked  pleasantly,  and  what  they  said  was  chiefly  of 
the  beauty  of  the  different  views,  which  Fanny  pointed 
out,  on  land  and  water, — and  there  are  very  many  to  be 
seen  by  an  open  eye,  in  walking  down  that  harbor  road. 

The  nearest  house  to  the  top  of  the  slope  in  Mad  Cove, 
was  that  of  Widow  Freney,  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  one 
of  Mrs.  Barre's  pensioners  ;  the  next — a  hovel  at  a  little 
distance — was  that  of  a  man  with  the  aristocratic  name 
of  Somerset,  who  was,  in  American  phrase,  the  most 
"  shiftless  "  fellow  in  the  harbor. 

The  ladies  knocked  at  Mrs.  Freney's  door,  and  the  door 
swung  open  at  the  first  touch. 

The  widow,  however,  seemed  surprised  at  seeing  them, 
and  confused.  The  place  had  been  tidied  up  ;  the  chil 
dren  washed  and  brushed ;  and  Mrs.  Freney  wore  the 
best  dress  that  had  been  given  her,  and  a  ceremonious 


48  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

face.  She  asked  the  ladies  to  be  seated,  less  urgently 
and  profusely  than  her  wont  was,  and  answered  with  some 
embarrassment.  One  of  her  children  was  sick. — The 
ladies  did  not  stay. 

"Oh,  mother!"  exclaimed  a  child,  who  had  opened 
the  door  to  let  them  pass,  "  he's  here !  the  Praest's  here ! " 

Miss  Dare  was  passing  out,  when,  as  the  boy  had  just 
announced,  a  gentleman  was  on  the  point  of  entering. 
Seeing  her,  he  silently  lifted  his  hat  and  drew  back. 

When  Mrs.  Barre  came,  he  started  in  extreme  astonish 
ment,  and  was  greatly — even  violently — agitated.  In  a  few 
moments,  he  so  far  recollected  himself  as  to  withdraw  his 
astonished  and  agitated  gaze  from  her,  and  turned  away. 

Mrs.  Barre's  look  was  full  of  the  intensest  feeling. 
Miss  Dare  watched  the  sudden  and  most  unlooked-for 
scene  in  surprised  and  agitated  silence  ;  Mrs.  Freney  and 
her  family  in  wondering  bewilderment. 

Mrs.  Barre  spoke  to  the  priest ;  her  voice  was  broken, 
and  tender,  and  moving. 

"  Shall  I  not  have  a  word  or  look  of  recognition  ?  "  she 
said. 

He  turned  about,  and  with  a  look  of  sad  doubt,  asked, 
gently,  but  very  earnestly,  "  Are  you  a  Catholic  ?  " 

She  answered  instantly,  "  Yes  !  as  I  always  was,  and 
never  really  ceased  to  be  for  a  moment." 

Perhaps  Miss  Dare  started,  but  a  glance  at  him  would 
have  assured  her  that  he  was  not  satisfied.  The  doubt 
in  his  look  had  not  grown  less ;  the  sadness  kept  its  place. 

"  No  more  ?  "  he  asked  again  ;  "  not  what  I  believed 
when  we  took  leave  of  one  another?  Not  what  you 
were  in  Lisbon  ?  " 

Mrs.  Barre,  with  a  woman's  confidence  and  directness, 
turned  to  what  must  have  been  a  common  memory  be 
tween  them :— 


A  WALK  AND   THE  END   OF  IT.  49 

"  No  more  than  what  I  was  when  I  was  a  happy  wife 
in  Jamaica,  and  had  a  true  and  noble  husband  and  two 
blessed  children  !  No  more,  and  the  same  !  " 

She  did  not  weep,  though  she  spoke  with  intense  feel 
ing.  He  seemed  to  feel  almost  more  strongly.  He  put 
his  hand  upon  his  forehead,  pressing  both  brows.  Neither 
seemed  to  regard  the  presence  of  witnesses  ;  yet  when 
Miss  Dare  moved,  as  if  to  withdraw,  the  priest  hastily 
begged  her  not  to  go  away ;  and  then  to  Mrs.  Barre, 
who  stood  looking  fixedly  upon  him,  he  said  sadly : — 

"  How  can  I,  then,  but  s&yfarewefl  ?  " 

"  How  can  you  not,  when  I  come  asking  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  I  follow  plain  duty ;  and  not  un 
feelingly,  but  most  feelingly,  must  say  farewell !  "  and  he 
turned  and  walked  away  from  the  house,  toward  one  of  the 
knolls  of  rock  and  earth. 

"  Then  I  must  wait ! "  she  said,  turning  her  look  up 
toward  the  sky,  which  did  not  hide  or  change  its  face. 
Then  Mrs.  Barre's  strength  seemed  giving  way. 

"  Come  back  into  the  house  and  sit  a  moment,"  said 
Miss  Dare,  who  had  her  arm  about  her;  "and  Mrs. 
Freney,  will  you  get  a  little  water,  please  ?  " 

Mrs.  Barre,  though  unable  to  speak,  mutely  resisted  the 
invitation  to  go  back  into  the  house,  but  persisted  in  go 
ing,  with  tottering  steps,  up  the  hill  toward  the  path,  and 
still  kept  on,  though  almost  sinking,  for  some  rods  farther, 
— until  she  had  got  within  the  pass  through  the  rocks, — 
there  she  sank  upon  a  stone. 

"Thank  you.  Don't  be  afraid  for  me,"  she  gasped; 
"  I  never  faint."  Then  resting  her  elbows  on  her  knees, 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  so  sat.  "  Oh  ! 
Fanny,"  she  said,  "  you  saw  that  he  was  one  very  near  to 
me,  though  so  utterly  separated !  " 


50  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

At  the  sound  of  a  hasty  step  approaching,  she  started 
and  looked  forth.  It  was  Mrs.  Freney  with  a  mug  of 
water. 

"  Here's  some  drink  he  bid  me  bring  'ee  ma'am,"  she 
said,  courtesying ;  "  an'  sure  I'm  very  proud  to  bring  it  to 
such  a  kind  lady  as  y*  are." 

Mrs.  Barre  thanked  her,  but  declined  the  water ;  and 
the  woman,  expressing  a  hope  "  that  she  wouldn't  be  the 
worse  of  her  walk,"  offered  to  procure  a  punt  that 
she  might  be  rowed  back,  "if  she'd  plase  to  let  her 
get  it."  This  offer,  like  the  other,  was  declined,  with 
thanks. 

The  ladies  walked  back  more  silently  than  they  had 
come,  and  more  slowly,  Mrs.  Barre  resting  more  than 
once  by  the  way,  and  looking  hurriedly  backward,  often. 
At  home  she  threw  herself  down,  and  lay  long  with  her 
face  buried.  At  length  she  rose,  and  wiping  away  her 
tears,  said  : — 

"  Ah  Fanny,  it  isn't  right  that  a  bright,  young  spirit 
like  yours  should  have  so  much  to  do  with  sorrow.  Your 
day  is  not  come  yet." 

"  You  don't  know  that,"  said  her  friend,  smiling,  and 
then  turning  away.  "  Perhaps  that  was  the  very  thing 
that  brought  me  to  you." 

Mrs.  Barre  drew  her  to  herself  and  kissed  her.  The 
tears  were  falling  down  Fanny's  cheeks  this  time. 

A  sweet  breath  of  summer  air  came  through  the  open 
window. 

"  You  brave,  dear  girl ! "  said  the  widowed  lady,  kiss 
ing  her  again. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Fanny.,  shaking  the  tears  away ; 
"but  will  you  let  me  be  wise — though  I  haven't  had 
much  to  do  with  Roman  Catholics — and  ask  you  not  to  ex- 


A  WALK  AND  THE  END  OF  IT.  51 

pose  yourself  to  this  Romish  priest,  even  if  he's  your  own 
brother !  Let  him  go,  won't  you  ?  You  can't  do  him 
any  good,  and  he  won't  do  you  any." 

"  Nothing  can  make  me  a  Roman  Catholic ! "  said 
Mrs.  Barre,  "  and  I  can't  help  having  to  do  with  him. 
I  wouldn't  for  all  this  world  lose  my  chance  !  " 

"Ah  !  but  we  think  our  own  case  different  from 
others,"  said  Miss  Dare. 

"  If  you  knew  what  was  past,  Fanny,  you'd  trust  me 
for  what's  to  come,  under  God.  If  I  come  to  too  deep 
water,  be  sure  I'll  ask  Mr.  Wellon." 


52  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A   FEW   MOMENTS    OF   TWO    YOUNG   PEOPLE'S    LIVES. 

)  WO  or  three  days  passed  before  our  young  people, 
who  separated  at  Whitmonday  Hill,  met  again. 

The  night  had  been  rainy;  but  the  morning 
was  delightful.  An  occasional  cloud  floated,  like  a  hulk 
from  last  night's  battle,  across  the  sky ;  but  the  blue,  where 
it  appeared,  was  of  the  very  bluest ;  and  the  air  fittest  for 
breathing  and  being  glad  in.  The  high,  rocky  walls  of 
coast,  the  ridges  and  the  far-off  woods,  were  as  fresh  and 
clear  as  could  be ;  the  earth  was  cool  and  strong  under 
foot,  and  one  might  feel  the  wish-wash  of  the  water  where 
he  could  not  hear  it. 

Skipper  George  had  part  of  his  old  father's  garden,  on 
the  slope  below  the  ridgy  boundary  of  the  little  plain 
on  which  his  own  house  stood,  and  Skipper  George's 
daughter,  like  other  maidens  of  the  land,  was  early  busy 
in  it,  full  of  the  morning  freshness  and  beauty  of  the  day. 
A  step  drew  near,  and  James  Urston,  coming  to  the  fence, 
wished  her  "  good  morning,"  and  lifted  his  hat,  gracefully, 
as  if  he  had  had  his  schooling  somewhere  abroad. 

"  Oh,  James ! "  said  she,  looking  up,  with  her  face  all 
glowing,  "  you  hurt  yourself  the  other  day ! " 

"  No.  I've  got  over  it  before  this ;  it  was  nothing." 
His  face,  too,  had  its  fresh  touch  of  brightness  and  spirit 
from  the  morning. 


A  FEW  MOMENTS   OF  TWO  LIVES.  53 

"  It  might  have  been  something,  though.  You  shouldn't 
have  run  the  risk  for  such  a  trifle." 

"  There  was  no  risk ;  and  if  there  had  been,  it  wasn't 
for  little  Janie  only  that  I  got  the  '  shawl.' " 

Lucy's  bright  eyes  perhaps  looked  brighter.  "Are  you 
going  out  on  the  water  to-day  ?  "  she  asked,  changing  the 
subject. 

"  Yes,  To-day,  and  To-morrow,  and  To-morrow,  I  sup 
pose  ;  but  I  hope,  not  always !  " 

"  Would  you  go  to  Bay-Harbor  again  ?  " 

"  Never  on  the  old  errand,  Lucy ;  I  can  have  a  place 
in  Worner,  Grose  &  Co.'s  house;  I  think  Miss  Dare 
must  have  spoken  about  it." 

"Did  you  know,"  said  Lucy,  drawing  nearer  to  the 
fence,  and  bashfully  hesitating,  "  that  she  had  spoken  to 
the  Minister  about  making  me  mistress  in  a  school?" 
The  maiden  blushed,  as  she  spoke,  and  very  prettily. 

"And  he  will;  won't  he?"  said  Urston,  interestedly, 
but  rather  gravely. 

"Oh!  I  don't  know;  he  told  me  that  he  might  be  able 
to  soon;  but  I  don't  think  there's  any  place  for  me," 
she  answered,  busying  herself  with  the  garden. 

"  Yes ;  and  more  than  that,  by  and  by  !  "  said  he,  decid 
edly. — A  nice  ear  could  have  detected  a  little  sadness 
in  the  tone  with  which  he  said  these  words  of  happy 
augury. 

She  looked  hastily  up. 

"And  some  of  these  days  you'll  be  a  merchant ! "  she 
said. 

"  Something,  please  God ;  something,  Lucy,  that  wants 
mind  in  it,  I  hope,  and  that  one  can  put  some  heart  in, 
too ;  something  that  will  give  one  chances  to  think,  and 
learn,  after  having  once  begun  as  I  have." 


54  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  Oh,  you'll  go  on  learning,  Fm  sure,"  she  said ;  "  you 
know  so  much,  and  you're  so  fond  of  it." 

The  morning  was  fresh  and  clear,  the  water  bright  and 
living. 

u  You  think  a  good  deal  of  my  knowing  a  little  Latin ; 
but  only  think  of  what  other  people  know ! — this  very 
Father  Nicholas  at  Bay-Harbor.  You  know  ten  times 
as  much  that's  worth  knowing  as  I  do ! " 

"  Oh !  no,"  said  the  maiden,  "  it  wasn't  the  Latin, 
only—" 

"  I  know  the  t  Hours/  as  they  call  them,"  he  said, 
smiling,  "  and  some  of  the  <  Lives  of  Saints.' " 

"  Oh,  no  !  all  those  books  that  the  lawyer  lent  you." 

"  If  it  hadn't  been  for  those,  I  should  have  been  worse 
yet; — Father  Terence  hadn't  many; — yes,  I've  read 
enough  to  want  to  know  more; — but  the  pleasantest 
reading  I  ever  had  was  reading  your  English  Bible  with 
you  those  two  times." 

"  Was  it,  really  ?  "  the  maiden  asked,  with  a  glad  look, 
in  her  simplicity,  and  then  she  blushed  a  little. 

"  Yes ;  I've  got  every  word  of  what  we  read,  as  if  it 
were  written  in  my  mind  deeper  than  ever  those  North 
men  cut  their  words  in  the  rock." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  looking  beautifully  thought 
ful  out  into  the  air ;  but  then  suddenly  recalled  herself, 
and  said, — 

"  But  they  cut  their  words  deeply,  to  stand  till  now, 
ages  after,  with  the  sun  shining  on  them,  and  the  storm 
beating  against  them,  and  the  ice  freezing  over  them, 
year  after  year, — if  they  are  there,  as  people  say." 

"  There  are  writings  in  the  rock  ;  but  I  don't  know  if 
there  are  any  of  the  Northmen's.  It  doesn't  matter 
much ;  no  one  sees  or  cares  for  them." 


A  FEW  MOMENTS   OF  TWO   LIVES.  55 

"  Men  oughtn't  to  forget  them ! "  she  said,  with  glisten 
ing  eyes. 

"  Poor  men ! "  said  Urston,  in  his  turn,  "  they  hoped 
for  something  better !  But  hopes  are  happy  things  while 
we  have  them,  and  disappointed  hope  doesn't  hurt  dead 
men.  It's  the  living  that  feel." 

The  young  man  said  this  as  if  he  had  begun  a  man's 
life,  such  as  it  is,  most  often.  Perhaps  he  thought  only 
of  one  disappointment,  that  at  Bay-Harbor. 

Lucy  was  busy  again  with  the  garden. 

By  and  by  she  asked,  "What  do  you  think  they 
wrote  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  only  their  names ;  perhaps  the  names  of 
some  other  people  that  they  cared  for  at  home ;  and  the 
time  when  they  came." 

"  There  may  be  grave-stones  as  old,"  Lucy  said,  "  but 
this  seems  stranger,  cut  by  strange  men  on  a  great  cliff 
over  the  sea ; — I  should  like  to  look  for  it" 

"You  know  they  say  it's  somewhere  on  the  face  of 
Mad-Head,"  *  said  Urston ;  then  looking  towards  the 
ridge,  he  said,  "  Here  comes  my  father  ! "  and  wished  her 
hastily  "  Good-bye ! " 

#  So  it  is  believed,  in  Peterport,  of  a  certain  cliff;  and,  very  likely, 
in  other  places,  of  other  rocks. 


56  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A    WRITTEN   ROCK,    AND    SOMETHING   MORE. 

R.  SMALLGROVE,  not  jealous,  had  invited 
Skipper  George's  daughter  to  come  in,  as  often 
as  she  pleased,  to  the  school ;  and  generally  con 
trived  to  make  this  something  more  than  a  compliment, 
by  getting  her  occupied,  when  she  came,  with  teaching  the 
more  advanced  scholars,  while  Mrs.  Smallgrove  taught 
the  younger,  and  he,  with  calm  authority,  presided. 

This  day  Lucy  Barbury  had  sought  the  scholastic  hall, 
and  there  Miss  Dare  called  for  her,  just  as  school  hours 
were  over. 

The  haunts  of  childhood  have  an  attractiveness  of  their 
own  about  them,  for  those  that  were  children  once,  and  Miss 
Dare,  as  Lucy  came  bashfully  out,  pointed,  with  a  silent 
smile,  to  the  stain  made  upon  the  door-post  by  little  hands 
holding  against  it  while  little  feet  were  lifted  to  the  height 
of  the  threshold ;  and  read,  with  a  smile,  a  legend  traced 
with  tar  upon  a  bit  of  board  which  leaned  against  the 
school-house.  It  was  a  timely  moral  for  the  young  vota 
ries  of  science,  indicted  by  one  of  themselves,  inspired : — 

"  Yo  that  wool  lam, 
Don  fall  Estarn." 

"I'm  going  down  to  make  some  drawings,"  she  said, 
tl  would  you  like  to  go,  Miss  Lucy  Barbury  ?  " 


A  WRITTEN -ROCK,  AND   SOMETHING  MORE.        57 

"  Yes,  if  you  please,  Miss  Dare ;  if  you'd  like  me  to. 
Are  you  going  to  Mad  Cove  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  wasn't  going  to  Mad  Cove,  but  I  will  go,  if 
you'd  like  it." 

"I  think  that  writing  must  be  so  strange,  that  they 
say  the  Northmen  left  on  the  Head  ages  ago." 

"  But  why,  out  of  all  the  ages,  is  it  so  interesting  to- 
'day?" 

"  I  only  heard  to-day  where  it  was.  Do  you  think  it 
is  their  writing,  Miss  Dare  ?  " 

"  So  it's  thought ;  but  it  isn't  always  easy  to  make  sure 
of  such  things.  I  saw  an  account  of  a  stone  dug  up,  the 
other  day,  in  the  United  States  somewhere ;  and  an  In 
dian  scholar  said  that  the  letters  were  hieroglyphics,  and 
meant  that  i  seven  sons  of  the  Black  Cloud  made  three 
hundred  of  the  Wolfs  cubs  to  fall  like  leaves  of  the 
forest ; '  and  a  great  Oriental  scholar  read  it,  '  Here  the 
Brothers  of  the  Pilgrim  rested  by  the  graves  of  the 
dead ; '  and  he  said  it  was  a  trace  of  the  lost  tribes  of 
Israel ;  but  a  scholar  in  the  Scandinavian  languages,  of 
Sweden  and  Denmark,  said  it  was  a  relic  of  the  North 
men,  who  went  from  those  countries  and  discovered 
North  America;  and  that  it  meant,  'In  the  rolling 
fields  we  make  our  home  that  used  to  have  a  home 
on  the  rolling  waves.'  And  there  it  is,  you  see.  This 
writing  on  our  rock  is  also  said  to  be  by  those  North 
men." 

"And  it  may  be  by  Captain  Cook,  who  set  up  the 
stones  at  Sandy-Harbor,"  said  Lucy,  smiling. 

"  Yes ;  it  may  be,"  said  Miss  Dare,  assenting  to  the 
possibility  suggested. 

"  But  it  may  be  by  those  men,"  said  Lucy  again,  return 
ing  to  the  other  possibility. 


58  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  Certainly,"  answered  Miss  Dare,  assenting  again ; 
"  and  it  may  be  by  the  Lost  Tribes." 

Lucy  kindled  as  if  a  spirit  of  the  old  time  came  over 
her.  Her  eyes  swelled  and  brightened,  and  she  grew 
pale. 

"If  it  were,  they  ought  not  to  leave  it  hanging  out 
there  over  the  sea;  but  I  suppose  they'd  be  afraid  to 
move  it,"  said  she.  "And  if  it  were  those  Northern  men 
had  written  there,  I  should  almost  be  afraid  to  look  at  it 
so  long  after  they  were  gone ;  it  would  be  almost  as  if 
they  had  come  back  again  to  do  it ;  but  they  did  some 
times  write  simple  little  things  like  a  man's  name,  didn't 
they,  Miss  Dare  ?  " 

"  That's  been  a  trick  of  the  whole  race  of  men  in  all 
ages ;  writing  their  own  names  and  other  people's,"  said 
Miss  Dare,  "  on  walls,  and  trees,  and  rocks." 

It  took  them  a  good  half-hour — though  they  walked 
well — to  get  to  the  mysterious  rock,  over  Whitmonday 
Hill  and  by  Frank's  Cove  and  lesser  neighborhoods ;  but 
pleasant  talking  about  many  a  pleasant  thing,  and  frequent 
greetings  to  the  neighbors,  as  they  passed,  perhaps  made 
the  time  short. 

By  and  by  they  stood  on  Mad-Head ;  the  fresh  wind 
blowing  in  from  the  bay;  the  great  waves  rushing  up 
and  falling  back  far  down  below  them ;  the  boundless 
ocean  opening  forth,  beyond  Bacaloue  Island  ;  this  cruel 
sea  close  at  hand  being  of  the  same  nature  as  that  with 
out,  only  a  little  tamed.  They  both  stood,  at  first,  without 
speaking.  At  length  Miss  Dare  recalled  the  object  of 
their  visit,  and  said, — 

"  Now,  Lucy,  use  your  eyes,  please ;  and  see  which  is 
this  famous  stone.  I  am  rather  impatient  now  we're  so 
near  it." 


A  WRITTEN  ROCK,  AND   SOMETHING  MORE.        59 

Lucy,  too,  was  quite  excited. 

"This  is  the  very  rock,  I  think,"  said  she;  and  she 
threw  herself  upon  the  ground,  and  holding  by  an  up 
standing  point  of  the  rock,  and  by  its  edge,  leaned  over, 
bodily,  and  looked  down  the  hollowing  face  of  the  huge 
cliff.  Steady  as  a  girl  of  her  life  was,  in  eye  and  hand, 
she  did  this  with  the  same  composure  with  which  she 
would  have  leaned  over  her  father's  fence.  Miss  Dare 
threw  back  her  bonnet  and  let  the  wind  do  what  it  would 
with  her  hair,  while  she  got  down  upon  her  knees  and 
looked  over  also. 

These  two  pairs  of  bright  eyes  had  looked  some  time 
before  they  could  make  out  any  thing  like  letters  on  the 
great  grained  and  wrinkled,  and  riven  surface. 

"  There  !  there  ! "  suddenly  cried  Lucy  ;  "  there  is 
something  like  an  H.  I  see  it !  That  long  streak  down 
and'  the  other,  this  side,  and  the  cross-mark  between 
them."  She  pointed  with  her  finger  to  the  spot,  and 
presently  her  companion  saw  it. 

"  Doesn't  it  seem  terrible,"  said  Lucy  Barbury,  again, 
"  that  that  should  stay,  and  the  rock  never  change ;  and 
yet  the  living  hand  that  could  cut  that  into  the  rock  is 
gone,  and  nothing  left  of  it !  " 

"  Ay,  indeed ! "  said  Miss  Dare,  "  there's  something 
put  into  us,  and  while  it's  there  we're  greater  than  any 

thing ;  and  when  it's  taken  away, :  but  Lucy  there's 

nothing  more  there  that  I  can  see." 

"  And  that  long  mark,"  said  Lucy,  "  looks  like  a  crack 
in  the  rock;  but  then  a  man  might  save  himself  trouble 
if  he  found  one  already  made." 

Miss  Dare  helped  the  criticism  by  saying, — 

"  But  the  other  one  is  only  a  great  wrinkle.  We 
didn't  think  enough  of  one  thing ;  we  thought  it  might  be 


60  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

cut  by  Northmen,  or  Jews,  or  Englishmen,  but  we  didn't 
think  enough,  that  there  might  be  no  writing  at  all." 

Lucy  drew  herself  up  from  the  great  empty  air,  as 
she  felt  the  force  of  this  chilling  suggestion,  and  looked 
disappointed.  Her  companion  still  stretched  over  and 
searched. 

"  Ah !  but  I  see  it,  after  all !  I'm  the  discoverer  ! " 

"  Where,  please,  Miss  Dare  ?  "  said  Lucy,  easily  re 
covering  her  animation. 

"  Beyond  you,  there ;  just  beginning  at  that  turn  in  the 
rock.  I  suppose  it  goes  on,  on  the  other  face  of  it. 
That's  part  of  a  letter  that  I  see."  Here  they  began 
again  their  search ;  and  here  it  seemed  rewarded. 

There  were,  plainly,  letters  traced  in  the  stone,  about 
an  arm's  length  down,  and  yet  so  hidden  by  the  over- 
browing  of  the  rock,  as  not  to  be  seen  without  stretching 
far  over.  Fearlessly,  and  full  of  interest,  they  leaned 
over  in  turn  ;  each,  also,  in  turn,  holding  the  other. 

"  If  it  should  be  Greek  or  Hebrew,  it  will  be  too  much 
for  me :  Roman,  or  old  English,  or  German  Text,  I  fancy 
we  may  make  out. — It's  wonderfully  fresh  !  Two  words ! 
Some  sayings  of  two  words,  have  lasted  thousands  of 
years  without  being  cut  in  rock.  These  are  not  deep,  and 
there's  black  in  them." 

"  They  might  have  been  a  good  deal  deeper  and  full  of 
that  black,  and  worn  down  to  this,"  answered  Lucy  Bar- 
bury:  "I've  heard  of  windows  in  England  where  the 
glass  was  worn  down  by  the  weather,  till  it  was  so  thin 
you  could  put  a  pin  through  it  anywhere." 

"  Those  are  not  Roman  letters,"  said  Miss  Dare,  who 
was  intent  upon  them;  "but  they  do  look  wonderfully 
like  German  Text  or  Black  Letter,  and  the  old  North 
men  were  of  the  same  stock  that  we  are,  and  the  Germans, 


A  WRITTEN  ROCK,  AND   SOMETHING  MORE.        61 

you  know.  It  may  be  Hebrew. — I'll  draw  them  at  any 
rate  ; "  and  she  took  out  paper  and  pencil. 

"  Both  words  seem  to  begin  with  the  same  letter,"  con 
tinued  she,  "  and  there  other  letters  alike.  I  can  carry 
one  in  my  head,  pretty  well,  till  I  can  copy  it — if  my  head 
will  stand  this  looking  over." 

"  They  couldn't  have  reached  over  that  outstanding 
part  to  cut  it/'  said  Lucy,  who,  having  abandoned  the  de 
ciphering  to  Miss  Dare,  with  her  paper  and  pencil,  had 
her  thoughts  free  for  speculation. 

"  That's  true  ;  and  it  never  could  have  been  any  easier, 
for  that  part  hasn't  grown  on,"  said  Miss  Dare;  "but, 
then,  no  man  could  stand  on  that  ledge  and  use  both 
hands  to.  cut  with,  unless  it  was  a  good  deal  broader  once 
than  it  is  now,  and  so  it  may  have  been." 

"  But,  at  any  rate,"  said  the  fisherman's  daughter,  "if 
they  were  used  to  the  sea,  they  wouldn't  mind  swinging 
over  with  a  rope,  if  they  had  nothing  but  air  to  put  their 
feet  on." 

"  That's  true  again ;  and  most  likely  they  would  stand 
their  writing  upright,  with  the  rock ; — I  was  reading  it  up 
side  down,  like  those  inscriptions  in  the  Desert. — I'll 
begin  at  my  end  ; " — and  she  began  drawing.  "  That  looks 
as  if  it  would  come  out  like  the  old  Black  Letter,  or 
German  Text." 

"  James  Urston  might  have  read  it  if  he'd  only  looked ; 
he  writes  German  Text  beautifully,  and  knows  all  kinds 
of  writing  I  suppose,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Perhaps  James  Urston  never  heard  of  it,"  suggested 
Miss  Dare. 

"  Oh  !  I  forgot !  he  told  me  where  they  said  it  was,  but 
I  don't  think  he  had  seen  it,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Ah  ? — Well,"  Miss  Dare  continued,  keeping  to  her 


62  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

work,  "  if  we  turn  that  upside  down  it  looks  like  1 3L,' 
certainly ;  doesn't  it  ?  We  must  allow  a  little  for  the 
difficulty  of  cutting,  and  a  little  for  difference  of  writing, 
and  a  little  for  age.  Why,  if  it  all  goes  as  well  as  this, 
we  shall  make  a  noise  with  it  in  the  world.  Now  you  get 
the  next,  please ; — very  likely  a  date ! "  added  Miss  Dare, 
in  fine  spirits.  "  There  must  have  been  a  letter  before  it, 
but  there's  no  trace  of  one  now." 

"  Here  are  two  out  here  by  themselves,  Miss  Dare ! " 
said  Lucy,  who  had  been  looking  over  at  another  place, 
while  the  drawing  was  made,  and  who  was  excited  with 
her  discovery.  "  They're  very  plain :  '  I-V.'  " 

"  What  can  that  be  ?  "  said  Miss  Dare.  "  Four  ?  Four 
what  ?  '  I-V.'  it  certainly  is,"  she  said,  after  taking  her 
turn  in  looking  over.  "  Well,  we  can't  make  any  thing 
more  of  it  just  now.  There  are  no  other  letters  anywhere 
along.  Let  us  go  back  to  our  first  work." 

The  next  letter  they  pronounced  "  It,"  after  getting  its 
likeness  on  the  paper. 

"  That's  no  date,"  said  Miss  Dare  again :  " l  tt  ?  '" — 

" '  0,' "  suggested  Lucy  Barbury  ;  "  it  may  be  a  prayer." 

"  Well  thought  again  !  So  it  may  be !  Let's  see, — 
what's  the  next  ? — '  t ! '  Good  !  But  stay  :  this'll  take 
down  the  age  of  our  inscription,  mightily,  if  we  make  that 
English.  That  other  letter  's  « U,'  depend  upon  it.  '  2L= 
U^C^' — some  sort  of  Scandinavian  name — and — '  J> ! ' 
'  2LUtJ>»'  That  looks  pretty  well  and  sounds  pretty  well. 
Why,  that's  a  grand  old  Norse  name  !  *  Lury  ! '  It  sounds 
like  Rurie,  the  Russian  conqueror,  and  'FURY,'  and 
'  LURID.'  That's  an  old  Viking." 

"  How  strange ! "  said  the  pretty  fisher's  daughter, 
thoughtfully,  "  that  one  name,  of  all,  should  be  there  ;  and 
just  the  name  makes  us  think  of  a  particular  man,  and 


A  WRITTEN  ROCK,  AND  .SOMETHING  MORE.        63 

how  he  looked,  and  care  something  about  him — doesn't  it  ? 
He  was  the  commander,  I  suppose." 

Miss  Dare,  full  of  eager  discovery,  was  bending  over, 
in  her  turn.  It  was  slow  work,  stretching  over,  looking 
carefully,  and  copying  a  little  at  a  time. 

"  We  shall  have  more  trouble  about  the  next  word," 
said  she,  "  for  that  won't  be  a  name  ;  they  only  had  one 
name  in  those  days.  It  may  be  *  somebody's  son,'  though  ; 
yes,  it  may  be  a  name." 

"  And,  perhaps,"  said  Lucy,  smiling,  (for  they  really 
had  but  a  mere  thread  of  conjecture  to  walk  upon,  across 
a  boundless  depth,)  "  perhaps  this  is  no  man's  name.  It 
may  mean  something." 

"  We  haven't  got  that  third  letter  exactly,  after  all," 
said  Miss  Dare,  comparing  and  correcting.  "  It's  '  C/  not 
'  £»'  It  doesn't  make  a  man's  name  now,  certainly." 

"  There's  a  Saint  Lucy,  among  the  Roman  Catholics," 
said  her  namesake.  "  I  suppose  they  landed  on  her  day, 
just  as  they  did  at  St.  John's,  and  St.  George's,  and  St. 
Mary's,  and  the  rest." 

"  This  is  a  Lucy  that  hasn't  been  canonized  yet,  for 
there's  nothing  before  her  name ;  and  I've  got  a  key  to 
the  other,  so  that  it  doesn't  give  me  as  much  trouble  as  I 
expected.  I  believe  it  does  '  mean  something.' " 

Lucy  Barbury  leaned  over  the  rock  again  in  silence, 
but  presently  drew  herself  up  as  silently ;  and  as  Miss 
Dare  looked  at  her  with  a  smile,  she  said,  (and  no  pencil 
could  have  given  the  prettiness  of  the  blushing  cheek,  and 
drooping  lid,  and  head  half  held  up,) — 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  it  is." 

"But  I  do,"  said  Miss  Dare:  "<  U^a^t^U-r^' 
That's  more  familiar  than  one  of  those  hard  old  Norse 
names,  isn't  it  ?  It  seems  to  be  a  woman's  name ;  but  it 


64  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

makes  you  *  think  of  a  particular  man/  perhaps,  as  you 
said,  'and  how  he  looked,  and  care  something  about 
him?"' 

"Oh!  Miss  Dare,"  said  Lucy,  quite  overcome  with 
confusion,  "  I  didn't  know  it  was  there." 

"  Nor  I ;  but  since  it's  there,  somebody  put  it  there ; 
and  somebody  that  understands  German  Text.  But  I 
was  only  in  fun,  Lucy.  Don't  mind  it.  You  didn't  cut 
it." 

Lucy  would  not  have  minded  it,  perhaps,  if  she  had  cut 
it  herself. 

"  I'm  afraid  somebody  '11  see  it,"  she  said. 

There  was,  indeed,  more  than  one  body  (female— and, 
indeed,  an  old  man  too, — )  hastily  getting  up  along  the 
cliff's  edge,  looking  over,  all  the  way  along.  Few  people 
were  in  the  Cove~at  the  time,  and  the  greater  part  of 
the  few  had  been  busy;  but  still  the  long  sitting,  and 
above  all,  the  strange  doings  up  at  Mad-Head,  had  not 
been  unobserved,  and  at  length  it  was  impossible  for  the 
beholders  to  keep  away. 

"  I  don't  believe  they'll  see  it,"  said  Miss  Dare,  as  they 
came  near,  "  and  if  they  were  to  they  wouldn't  make  much 
out  of  it ;  not  many  of  the  women  understand  German 
Text.  There  are  those  Roman  letters,  beyond,  that  could 
be  made  out  more  easily;  but  there  again,  unless  they 
were  pretty  familiar  with  such  things,  they  wouldn't  be 
the  wiser." 

"  I  wonder  what  they  mean,"  said  Lucy,  who,  after  the 
revelation  of  the  Black  Letter,  might  be  glad  of  a  safe 
subject  for  speculation. 

"  I  fancy  that  they  might  be  interpreted  by  one  who 
'  understands  all  kinds  of  writing,' "  said  Miss  Dare,  with 
a  smile, — but  speaking  so  that  the  approaching  neighbors 


A  WRITTEN  ROCK,  AND   SOMETHING  MORE.        65 

should  not  hear, — but  I  and  J  used  to  be  the  same  letter, 
and  so  did  V  and  U." 

Lucy  blushed  more  deeply  than  ever  at  the  intelligence 
that  lurked  in  this  sentence. 

"  Oh !  don't  tell  them,  Miss  Dare,  please,"  said  she. 

"  Did  'ee  loss  any  thing,  Miss  ?  "  said  the  foremost  of  the 
advancing  inquirers. 

"  Yes ;  I'm  afraid  we've  lost  our  time ;  haven't  we, 
Lucy?'" 

"I  thought,  mubb'e  'ee  may  have  alossed  something 
down  the  rocks." 

"  No  ;  we  were  looking  for  the  old  writing,  you  know, 
that  they  say  is  cut  in.  Lucy  here,  had  read  about  such 
things  and  she  was  very  anxious  to  see  one." 

As  Miss  Dare  said  this,  she  looked  gravely  at  her  com 
panion,  but  that  pretty  maiden  was,  or  seemed,  altogether 
taken  up,  with  the  tie  of  one  of  her  shoes. 

"  Did  'ee  find  'un,"  inquired  another  of  the  curious,  as 
all  their  eyes  wandered  from  one  explorer  to  the  other. 

"  No ;  we  found  some  marks,  but  they  don't  look  like 
old  letters. — How  do  the  fish  go  to-day  ?  " 

"  They'm  ruther  sca'ce  Miss,  but  the  bait's  plenty." 

As  Miss  Dare  and  her  scholar  went  home,  they  said 
nothing  more  to  each  other  of  their  discovery.  The 
neighbors,  dispersing  slowly,  wondered  "  what  made  young 
Lucy  Barbury  look  so  frustrated  like,"  and  concluded 
that  it  was  because  of  her  not  being  "  so  sharp  about 
they  things  as  Miss  Dare,  and  how  could  she  ?  " 


VOL.  I. 


66  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

TRUE  WORDS  ARE  SOMETIMES  VERY  HEAVY. 

ARL  Y  next  morning,  whoever  passed  along  that 
part  of  the  harbor,  might  have  seen  young  Urs- 
ton  standing  under  the  Cross-way-Flake,  which 
covers  with  thick  shade  a  part  of  the  road  beyond  Mar- 
chants'  Cove,  and  the  approach  to  the  old  unpainted  house, 
in  which,  with  his  youngest  son  and  family,  lived  the  pa 
triarch  of  his  name,  old  Isaac  Barbury,  and  his  old  wife. 

From  where  the  young  man  stood,  the  fair  blue  heavens 
without,  seemed  like  smooth  walls  rising  about  the  earth, 
over  the  top  of  which  inclosure  had  now  begun  to  pour, 
and  by  and  by  would  come  in  a  flood,  sweeping  away  the 
airy  walls, — the  fresh  and  glorious  day. 

A  step  drew  near,  on  the  top  of  the  flake,  and  the 
young  man  left  his  standing-place  and  went  forth.  It  was 
a  handsome  woman,  of  middle  age,  who  stood  above,  with 
some  fish  which  she  was  preparing  to  spread,  and  whom 
he  saluted  respectfully,  giving  her  the  title  of  "  Aunt." 

She  returned  his  salutation  kindly,  but  distantly ;  and, 
as  he  lingered  still  in  silence,  addressed  him  again,  while 
she  continued  her  work. 

She  asked,  "  Have  you  given  up  being  a  priest,  Mr. 
Urston?" 

"  Yes !  "  he  answered,  in  a  single  word,  looking  before 
him,  as  it  were  along  his  coming  life,  like  a  quoit-caster, 


TRUE  WORDS   ARE  SOMETIMES  VERY  HEAVY.      G7 

to  see  how  far  the  uttered  word  would  strike  ;  then,  turn 
ing  to  her,  and  in  a  lower  voice,  added,  "  I've  left  that, 
once  and  forever. — But  why  must  I  be  so  strange,  that 
you  call  me  '  Mr.  Urston  ? ' " 

She  looked  at  him  searchingly,  without  speaking.  He 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  as  if  expecting  her  to  say 
more ;  but  as  she  turned  to  her  work  again  in  silence,  he 
said — "  I'm  a  fisherman,  just  now ;  I  may  be  something 
else,  but  it  won't  be  a  priest." 

"  James  Urston  !  "  she  said,  abruptly  as  before.  "  Do 
you  know  you're  trifling  with  the  very  life  ?  " 

The  young  man  started.  "  I  don't  understand,"  said 
he ;  "  do  you  blame  me  for  not  being  a  priest  ?  " 

No;  I'm  glad  of  it:  but  what  is  there  between  you 
and  my  daughter  Lucy  ?" 

The  young  heart,  as  if  it  had  been  touched  in  its  pri 
vacy,  threw  a  quick  rush  of  blood  up  into  James  Urston's 
face.  "  Nothing,"  he  answered,  much  like  a  lover ;  being 
confused  by  her  suddenness. 

'l  There  ought  to  be  nothing,  and  nothing  there  must 
be ! — I've  told  her,  and  I  tell  you,  Mr.  James  Urston, 
you  must  not  meet  any  more." 

"  But  why  ?  "  he  asked,  not  recovered  from  his  confu 
sion. 

"  You  can  see,  easily,"  said  Mrs.  Barbury.  "  I  needn't 
tell  you  why." 

Is  there  any  thing  so  hard,  or  that  goes  in  so  deep,  as 
air  made  into  words  ? 

"  No,  I  don't  see,"  he  said.  "  I  see  how  different  she 
is  from  any  one  else." 

How  could  he  let  himself  see  that  wall,  so  suddenly 
built  up,  but  so  surely  ? — It  was  not,  yesterday. 

"  I  know  she  is,"  said  the  mother,  "  and  I  thank  God 


68  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

for  it ;  He  made  her  so :  but  her  feelings  are  like  other 
people's,  only  they  may  go  deeper. — They  can't  be  trifled 
with." 

"How  could  I  trifle  with  her?"  he  asked,  warmly. 
"'Trifling  is  not  my  character, — with  man  or  woman  !  " 
There  was  a  strength  in  this  self-assertion,  in  which  every 
feature  took  part  with  the  voice,  that  must  have  impressed 
Mrs.  Barbury. 

"  I  believe  you  don't  mean  wrong,"  she  said ;  "  and 
that  makes  it  easier  to  speak  plain  to  you.  I  haven't 
language  like  yours,  but  I  can  say  the  truth.  I'm  her 
mother,  and  must  answer  to  God  for  what  care  I  take  of 
her.  It  would  be  wrong  for  me  to  let  you  go  on,  and  for 
you  to  go  on,  against  my  forbidding." 

The  young  man's  face  was  flushed.  Happily,  no  one 
but  Mrs.  Barbury  was  near;  and  happily,  and  rather 
strangely,  no  one  else  was  drawing  near. 

"  If  you  forbid  it,  it's  wrong ;  I  don't  know  what  else 
should  make  it  wrong,"  he  said. 

"  Difference  of  religion,  James  Urston,"  she  said,  slowly 
and  gravely, — "  as  you  must  know  yourself.  I  wouldn't 
be  unkind;  but  it  can't  be  helped." — It  was  plain  that 
she  was  thoroughly  resolved. 

He  answered  bitterly : — 

"  If  you  don't  blame  me  for  not  being  a  priest,  you'll 
take  good  care  that  I  never  come  any  further.  There 
mightn't  always  be  a  difference  of  religion." 

Mrs.  Barbury  looked  steadily  at  him,  and  severely; 
she  said : — 

"  I  didn't  think  you'd  given  up  being  a  priest  for  any 
woman — " 

Urston  did  not  restrain  himself,  but  broke  in  upon  her 
speech : — 


TRUE  WORDS  ARE   SOMETIMES   VERY  HEAVY.      69 

"  I  never  gave  up  the  priesthood  for  any  thing  but  con 
science  !  because  I  must  be  a  hypocrite,  if  I  kept  on.  I 
can't  believe  every  thing,  like  good  old  Father  Terence  ; 

and  I  can't  be  a  villain,  like "  (he  did  not  give  the 

name.) 

She  answered : — 

"  You  speak  quite  another  way,  when  you  say  that  I 
ought  to  risk  my  daughter  for  the  chance  of  making  you 
a  Protestant !  I've  no  right  to  sell  my  daughter's  soul !  " 

Again  the  young  man  took  fire.  "  We  needn't  speak 
of  trafficking  in  souls,"  he  said,  "  I'm  sure  nothing  would 
buy  her's,  and  I  wouldn't  seU  mine, — even  for  Lucy  Bar- 
bury." 

"  Then  do  right ! "  said  the  simple  reasoner  who  was 
talking  with  him.  "  You  can't  be  any  thing  to  each 
other ! " 

Gentle  as  her  face  and  voice  were,  the  sentence  was 
not  to  be  changed.  It  is  not  only  in  drowning,  that  the 
whole  life  past, — ay,  and  the  future's  hope, — meet  in  an 
instant's  consciousness,  as  a  drop  reflects  the  firmament ; 
for,  in  any  crisis  which  has  power  to  quicken  every  fac 
ulty  to  its  utmost,  all  that  is  past  comes  with  a  sudden 
sadness,  and  all  that  might  have  been  ;  while,  at  the  same 
pulse,  comes  the  feeling,  that,  between  past  and  future, 
we  are  losing  hold  and  slipping  down,  forever;  quitting 
the  results  of  what  is  gone,  and  the  opportunity  of  what 
was  to  come.  Whoever  has  had  the  experience  of  love 
discovered  in  his  heart,  only  that  it  may  be  chased  and 
killed,  may  know  what  Urston  felt. 

"  You  can't  help  what  she  has  been  to  me,"  he  said, 
sadly.  "  You  can't  take  away  the  memory,  at  least.  You 
can't  take  away  noble  thoughts  she's  given  me.  You  can 
take  away  what  might  have  been,  yet," — he  added,  bit- 


70  THE  NEW  PRIE&T. 

terly,  as  well  as  sadly,  "it's  hard  for  a  young  man  to 
have  to  look  back  for  his  happiness,  instead  of  forward ! 
I  didn't  think  it  was  to  be  my  case ! " 

No  man  living,  and  certainly  no  woman,  could  help 
feeling  with  him.  Mrs.  Barbury  and  he  were  still  alone 
together.  She  spoke  (and  gently)  : — 

"  Happiness  isn't  what  we're  to  seek  for  ;  but  it  comes 
after  doing  what's  right. — It  isn't  always  easy  to  do  right," 
she  said. 

"  Not  so  easy  as  to  tell  others  to  do  it,"  he  answered, 
bitterly,  still. 

"  And  yet,  it  is  to  be  done ;  and  many  have  done  as 
hard  things,"  said  Mrs.  Barbury,  "and  even  were  the 
better  for  it,  afterwards." 

"When  it  takes  away  the  very  best  of  life,  at  the 
beginning" .  The  young  man  gave  way  to  his  feel 
ings  for  a  moment,  and  his  voice  broke. 

"  "We  may  live  through  it,  and  be  the  better  for  it,"  she 
said. 

"  Take  away  the  best  of  life,  and  what  is  left  ? "  he 
asked,  with  his  broken  voice,  which  had  been  so  strong 
and  manly  only  a  little  while  before.  "Or  break  the 
heart,  and  what's  the  man,  afterwards  ?  " 

Mrs.  Barbury's  answer  was  ready,  as  if  the  question 
had  come  to  her  years  ago. 

"A  'broken  heart'  is  the  very  thing  that  God  asks 
for ;  and  if  it  will  do  for  Him,  it  may  do  for  this  world," 
she  said.  "  I  know  what  a  woman  can  do,  James,  when 
she  must,  and  I  think  a  man  should  do  as  much." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Not  by  your  own 
feeling  ! " 

"  Yes,  by  my  own  feeling !  " 

The  young  man  looked  up  at  the  fair,  kindly  face, 


TRUE  WORDS  ARE  SOMETIMES  VERY  HEAVY.     71 

which,  in  familiarity  with  the  free  air,  had  given  away 
some  of  its  softness,  but  had  it's  wide,  clear  eye  un 
changed,  and  gentle  mouth. 

We,  young,  are  often  bewildered  by  a  glimpse  of  the 
unpublished  history  of  some  one  of  our  elders :  (for  the 
best  of  these  are  unwritten,  and  we  sometimes  catch  a 
glance  at  them.) — Ah !  covetousness,  or  low  ambition,  or 
earnest  drudgery,  as  well  as  hatred  of  mankind,  or  mad 
ness,  or  too  early  death,  has  taken  many  a  one  that  led 
another  life,  up  to  a  certain  time ;  and  then  it  was  broken 
off! 

So,  too,  a  happy  peacefulness  and  quiet  strength  have 
taken  place,  like  sunshine,  and  a  new,  green  growth,  in 
many  a  heart  where  the  fierce  tempest  had  laid  waste. 
It  may  have  been  so  with  Skipper  George's  wife. 

"You'd  never  know  from  the  water,  when  it  lays 
smooth  in  the  sun,"  she  said,  presently,  "  what  storms  it 
had  been  in,  outside. — I  was  as  young  as  you  or  Lucy, 
once." 

She  smiled,  and  it  seemed  almost  as  if  her  young  self, 
fair  and  happy,  came,  at  a  call,  up  within  her,  and  looked 
out  at  her  eyes  and  glowed  behind  her  cheek.  Urston 
could  not  help  listening. 

"  I  was  brought  up  in  England,  you  know,  from  a 
child,  in  Mrs.  Grose's  family.  I  was  a  play-fellow  with 
the  children,  and  then  maid. — One  time,  I  found  I  was 
going  to  be  wretched,  if  I  didn't  take  care,  for  the  sake 
of  one  that  wasn't  for  me ;  and  so  I  went  into  my  room, 
and  didn't  come  the  first  time  I  was  called ;  but  when  I 
did,  I  was  as  strong  as  I  am  now." 

"  You  weren't  in  love  !  "  said  Urston. 

"  I  wasn't,  afterwards :  but  I  was  much  like  you, 
before— only,  I  wasn't  a  man." 


72  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

She  was  as  calm  and  strong  in  telling  her  little  story, 
as  if  it  had  not  once  touched  her  very  life.  So  the  boat 
swims,  full-sailed  and  fearless,  over  the  rock,  on  which, 
one  day,  at  half-tide,  it  had  struck. 

"  Not  every  one  can  go  through,  so  easily,"  said  the 
young  man,  moodily. 

"  James  Urston  !  "  said  she,  looking  steadily  in  his  face, 
"  you're  a  man,  and  women's  feelings  are  not  the  easiest 
to  get  over." 

"  Well,  I  can't  stay  here,"  said  he,  looking  out  sea 
ward,  as  so  many  young  lovers  have  done,  before  and 
since  ;  some  of  whom  have  gone  forth  wanderers,  accord 
ing  to  their  word,  and  helped  to  fill  the  breath  of  the 
Northeast  Wind  with  this  long  wailing  that  we  hear,  and 
some  of  whom  have  overcome  or  been  overcome  by  hard 
things  at  home. 

"  Take  it  manfully,"  said  the  woman,  "  and  you'll  con 
quer  it." 

He  pressed  his  lips  together,  shook  his  head  once,  with 
a  gesture  of  anguish,  and  then,  straightening  himself  and 
throwing  back  his  head,  walked  up  the  harbor. 

"  35s  fst  efne  alte  <£esc!)fc!)te, 
Slntr  jjejjt  nfcfjts  grosses  fcauef  ; 
Hocf)  toem  es  euen  passfret 
33em  imctrt  tras  SHerr  ent?toef."  * 


It's  only  an  old,  old  story, 

That  there  goes  but  little  to  make  : 

Yet  to  whomso  it  happens, 

His  heart  in  two  mus.t  break. 

So  sings,  most  touchingly,  the  German  poet,  of  love 
*  JSefne. 


TRUE  WORDS  ARE  SOMETIMES  VERY  HEAVY.     73 

with  cruel  scorn  tossed  back.  He  sang  out  of  a  heart 
that  knew  what  was  the  dreadful  crush,  and  dizzying,  de 
stroying  backset  of  the  life's  flood,  when  its  so  many  chan 
nels,  torn  from  their  fastenings  in  another's  being,  lie 
huddled  upon  themselves. 

A  little  further  up  the  road,  there  is  on  the  left  hand, 
where  the  hill  goes  down — rocky,  and  soddy,  and  stony — 
to  the  beach,  a  little  stream,  that  loiters  (as  it  leaves  the 
bosom  of  the  earth  and  comes  out  into  the  air,)  just  long 
enough  to  fill  up  a  hollow  with  its  clear,  cool  water, 
and  then  goes  gurgling  on  its  short  way  to  the  salt  sea. 
There  is  no  superstition  in  the  regard  the  neighbors  have 
for  this  spring ;  but  everybody  knows  the  place,  and  some 
have  tender  memories  connected  with  it,  from  gatherings 
of  lads  and  maids  about  it  in  the  clear  summer  evenings. 
Har-pool,  (or  Hare-pool,)  they  call  it. 

If  James  had  thought  of  this  association,  (perhaps  he 
did,)  it  would  have  given  another  touch,  still,  to  his  sad 
ness,  to  remind  himself  of  it  at  the  spot ;  but  he  crossed 
over,  and  went  down  to  it,  and,  where  the  streamlet  fell 
out  of  its  basin,  caught  the  cool  water  in  his  hand,  and 
bathed  his  brow,  and  drank. 

His  side  was  toward  the  sun,  that  came  along,  as  he 
does,  in  his  strong  way,  not  hindered  by  our  unreadiness. 
The  young  man's  shadow,  long  and  large,  was  thrown 
upon  the  hill-side.  Another  shadow  joined  it.  He 
turned  hastily,  and  saw  the  old  parish-clerk,  Mr.  William 
son  coming.  He  went  out  into  the  road ;  met  him,  ex 
changing  salutations ;  passed  under  the  Crossway-Flake, 
and  down  the  harbor. 


74  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
SKIPPER  GEORGE'S  STORY. 

the  evening  of  that  day,  which  had  been  beautiful 
to  the  end,  Skipper  George's  daughter  seemed  more 
full  of  life  than  ever.  In  the  last  hour  of  daylight 
she  had  given  her  lesson  to  her  little  sister,  who  was  no 
great  proficient  at  learning,  and  who  was,  by  degrees, 
(like  some  other  children,  with  other  words,)  getting  broken 
of  making  "  c-o-d  "  spell  "  fish."  She  tripped  across  the 
even  ground  in  front  of  the  house,  to  meet  her  father,  with 
a  lighter  step  than  usual,  and  was  busier  than  ever  within 
doors.  When  supper  was  over,  and  after  the  three- 
wicked  lamp  in  the  chimney  was  lighted,  she  read,  out 
of  a  book  that  Miss  Dare  had  lent  her,  a  story  of  an 
ancient  mariner,  and  his  strange  voyage  ;  while  the  mother 
knitted  a  pair  of  woollen  leggings  for  her  husband,  and  the 
stout  fisher  sat  upright,  with  Janie  on  his  knee,  sometimes 
looking  at  his  daughter  as  she  read,  and  sometimes  looking, 
musingly,  into  the  fire,  where  the  round  bake-pot  stood, 
covered  with  its  blazing  "  splits,"  and  tinkled  quietly  to 
itself. 

George  Barbury  was  a  large,  strong-bodied  man,  more 
than  six  feet  in  height,  with  a  broad  chest,  and  every  way 
a  pattern  of  a  stout,  healthy  fisherman.  His  rusty  clothes, 
— -jacket,  and  vest,  and  trowsers, — patched  evenly  and 
cleanly  at  the  knees  and  elbows,  had  a  manly  look ;  so 


SKIPPER  GEORGE.  75 

had  his  shoes,  with  their  twine-ties,  and  his  strong,  thick- 
ribbed  stockings,  and  thick  woollen  shirt,  and  plain  black 
'kerchief  round  his  neck ;  but,  above  all,  that  weather- 
beaten  face  of  his,  with  grizzled  whiskers  half-way  down, 
and  the  kind,  simple  eyes,  that  looked  out  over  all  at  one, 
and  the  bald  head,  with  grizzled,  curling  locks,  of  those  that 
always  look  as  if  they  never  grew  beyond  a  certain  length 
and  never  needed  cutting.  All  this  great,  massive  head 
and  kindly  face  were  open  now,  for,  in  deference  to  the 
reading,*  he  sat  uncovered.  The  little  girl  had  listened, 
at  first,  with  great  interest,  to  the  wondrous  rhyme,  but 
was  soon  asleep,  with  one  arm  stretched  at  length  over 
her  father's,  with  the  little,  busy  hand  at  rest,  having 
dropped  the  chip  which,  at  first,  had  illustrated  the  story ; 
one  wing  of  her  cap  was  pushed  up  from  her  chubby  face, 
and  one  stout  little  leg  was  thrust  forth,  so  as  to  show  a 
shoe  studded  with  nail-heads  all  around  the  sole. 

The  daughter,  by  natural  gift  of  God  and  happy  growth, 
was,  in  some  ways,  a  different  being  from  her  parents. 
Much  beauty  of  outward  things,  much  beauty  of  inward 
thoughts,  and  an  ideal  world, — with  its  sky  above,  and 
earth  and  boundless  sea  below, — which  lies  in  the  mind 
of  every  speaking  or  mute  poet,  as  the  old  Platonists  sup 
posed  it  to  lie  in  the  divine  mind ; — these  things  this  girl 
saw,  and  her  parents  saw  not;  even  her  mother,  only 
partly.  In  the  vision  of  these,  the  daughter  was  beyond 
the  one  ;  apart  from  the  other.  But  in  how  much  more 
had  she  deep  sympathy  with  them  and  kindred  to  them, 
because  she  had  lost  nothing  while  she  had  gained  so 
inuch !  All  human  hearts  and  minds  that  have  not 
quenched  that  light  of  Christ  "  that  lighteth  every  man 
that  cometh  into  the  world,"  can  know  and  feel  truth, 

*  Their  readings  are  generally  from  the  Bible  and  Prayer-book. 


76  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

heartiness,  manliness,  womanliness,  childlikeness,  at  sight, 
much  or  a  little ;  and  the  conscience  which  Lucy  brought 
to  judge  of  higher  things  and  things  farther,  was  the  self 
same  that  the  rest  of  them  applied  to  lower  and  near 
things.  Some  sentences  of  false  religion  she  quietly 
changed  in  reading,  and  only  spoke  of  them  when  all  was 
done. 

The  fisherman  approved  the  painting  of  the  icebergs, 
and  the  bending  over,  and  pitching  and  swaying  of  the 
ship,  and  the  shaking  of  the  sails,  and  the  dropping  down 

"  Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 
Below  the  light-house  top," 

and  the  mother  approved  the  moral  that  bade  us  love  all 
things,  both  great  and  small,  after  that  more  than  once 
the  tears  had  come  to  her  eyes  as  she  sat  knitting ;  and 
Lucy's  voice,  as  gentle  and  musical,  and  clear  as  the  gur 
gle  of  a  brook  that  the  rain  has  filled,  would  sometimes 
run  fuller,  and  sometimes  break,  and  sometimes  cease  to 
be  heard  for  a  while,  and  she  would  sit  and  gaze  at  the 
burning  lamp  or  the  fire,  or  up  through  the  wide  chimney 
at  the  starry  sky ;  and  they  all  thought  that  the  words 
about  the  silent  sea,  and  the  wondrous  harmonies  made 
by  the  blessed  spirits  through  the  sailors'  bodies,  were  ex 
ceeding  beautiful.  And  after  it  was  done,  the  father  and 
mother,  and  the  bright  girl, — who  had  so  many  more,  and 
so  much  fairer,  fancies  than  they, — all  agreed  in  this  judg 
ment  :  that  no  man  had  a  right  to  bring  false  religion,  or 
a  lie  against  the  honor  of  God,  into  poetry,  any  more 
than  into  the  catechism. 

"  Tis  n'  right  to  put  in  about l  Mary,  Queen,'  and  the 
1  Mother  of  Heaven,' — for  I  suppose  'e  was  a  larn'd  man 
that  could  write  what  'e  woul',  Lucy  ?  "  said  the  father,  in 
a  tone  of  regret;  "'e  should  n'  help  the  wrong,  when 


SKIPPER  GEORGE.  77 

there's  so  many  taken  by  it,  and  mubbe  lost  forever! 
We  got  no  right  to  '  make  mention  o'  they  names  within 
our  lips/  as  the  psalm  says." 

The  mother  spoke,  perhaps  not  less  sadly,  but  more 
severely : 

"Yes,  child,  it's  just  that  part  will  do  mischief;" — the 
mother  had  been  a  Roman  Catholic,  it  will  be  remem 
bered.  "  They  can't  go  such  a  voyage,  or  see  such  sights, 
but  they  can  call  her  queen,  and  pray  to  her." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  the  bright-eyed  daughter.  "  It's 
all  a  wild  thing,  and  one  part  no  more  true  than  another ; 
but  I  think  it  might  do  mischief." 

"And  it's  not  well  having  much  to  do  with  Roman 
Catholics,"  continued  the  mother,  more  pointedly,  while 
her  daughter  looked  with  a  fixed  gaze  into  her  face,  drop 
ping  her  eyes  when  her  mother  raised  hers  from  her 
work. 

"  They'm  not  all  bad,"  said  Skipper  George,  "  though 
they're  all  wrong  in  religion  surely.  Thou  wasn't  very 
bad,  Mother,"  he  continued,  with  a  tender  smile  at  his 
wife,  "  when  thou  was  one  o'  them ;  though  'ee  're  better 
sunce,  that's  a  sure  case.  I  walked  a  good  piece  wi'  a 
pleasan'-lookin'  gentleman,  (much  like  a  reverend  gentle 
man  'e  seemed,)  an'  so  'e  said  we  musn'  think  they'm  all 
bad." 

At  him,  again,  the  daughter  looked  with  a  long,  fixed 
gaze,  holding  her  book  upon  her  knees.  Presently,  the 
fisherman  got  up,  and,  laying  down  his  little  load  at  length 
upon  the  bench,  went  forth  into  the  evening. 

A  full,  round  moon  was  shining  in  a  sky  so  clear  that 
it  seemed,  really,  as  if  space  wrere  empty.  Half  day  it 
was,  and  yet  full  night ;  and  as  the  fisher,  crossing  the 
green  before  his  house,  mounted  the  ridge  and  leaned 


78  THE  NEW  PKIEST. 

against  a  lone  tree  or  mast  that  stood  up  from  the  earth 
of  a  cleft  in  the  rocks,  the  harbor- road  below  him  was 
shown  plainly,  and  the  houses  at  its  side,  and  in  the  cove 
not  far  off,  stood  plainly  outlined, — larger  and  smaller, 
dark  and  white, — some  in  their  own  inclosures,  some  as 
if  there  were  no  land  in  any  way  belonging  to  them  but 
the  public  thoroughfare  ;  yet  was  there  no  sight  or  sound 
of  living  thing,  except  the  frequent  bark  of  dogs,  and  the 
innumerable  waves,  rising  and  falling  everywhere,  in  their 
most  glorious  cloth  of  silver,  which  they  wear  only  at 
such  times. 

As  he  stood  silently,  a  step  drew  near. 

"  A  good  evenun,  sir  ! "  said  Skipper  George,  in  a  voice 
of  kindly  courtesy,  turning  and  recognizing  the  gentleman 
of  whom  he  had  spoken  a  few  moments  before,  who  was 
not  immediately  aware  of  his  being  addressed,  but  collected 
himself,  almost  instantly,  and  turning  aside  from  the  path 
that  he  was  following,  cordially  returned  the  stout  fisher's 
salutation. 

"  I  beg  pardon  for  makun  so  free  to  hail  'ee,  sir,"  said 
the  latter,  leaving  his  place,  and  coming  forward  to  meet 
the  stranger-gentleman ;  "  mubbe  'ee  was  in  a  hurry,  or 
thinkin'  o'  somethun  particular." 

"  I  was  thinking ;  but  am  willing  to  be  interrupted.  I 
haven't  forgotten  our  walk  together,  nor  your  story,  nor 
the  lesson  you  drew  from  it." 

"  It's  very  good  of  'ee,  sir,  to  mind  me.  There's 
amany  things  happen  that  we  may  take  warnun  from,  ef 
we  woul' ;  an'  the  Lard  make  men  knowledgeable  to  take 
notice  an'  lam  from  things,  I  suppose.  We  wants  teachun 
— amany  of  us,  sir." 

"  All  of  us"  said  the  gentleman,  whom  the  reader 
knows  as  Father  Debree.  I  was  thinking  as  I  came 


SKIPPER  GEORGE.  79 

across  here,  with  the  moon  before  me,  how  we  mistake 
about  ourselves  !  That  moon  belongs  to  this  earth  ;  that 
we  count  ourselves  masters  of;  it  keeps  going  round  it, 
and  can't  get  away ;  and  yet  in  six  thousand  years  we've 
never  been  able  to  go,  or  send,  or  do  any  thing  to  it." 

While  he  spoke,  and  the  fisherman  turned  his  open  face 
broad  to  the  fair,  bright  planet,  the  width  of  silent  empti 
ness  between  the  earth  and  it  might  have  seemed  a  real 
thing,  shown  to  the  eye.  Before  Mr.  Debree  had  fin 
ished  speaking  his  companion  was  looking,  with  the  ex 
pression  of  thought  suggested  by  the  words,  into  his  face. 

"  There's  one  Master?  said  he,  after  the  words  were 
spoken  ;  "  we're  servants,  but  we  may  be  children  ;  "  and 
his  great,  manly  build,  and  the  graying  hue  of  his  hair, 
and  the  deep  lines  of  his  face,  as  the  moon  showed  them, 
gave  a  peculiar  character  to  what  he  said. 

"  You  had  the  best  lookout  in  the  neighborhood,"  said 
Mr.  Debree,  walking  to  the  spot  on  which  Skipper  George 
had  been  before  standing  and  looking  abroad  from  it. 
"This  tree  didn't  grow  here,"  said  he,  looking  up  at 
the  gray  trunk  glistening  in  the  moonlight. 

"  No,  sir ;  'twas  set  there,"  said  the  fisherman. 

"Is  it  a  landmark?" 

"  'Is,  sir,  it  may  be,  in  a  manner ;  but  not  for  s'ilun  on 
those  waters.  'Twas  set  there  when  riches  was  taken 
aw'y.  Riches  came  agen,  but  'twas  laved,  for  'e'd  larned 
partly  how  to  value  riches." 

The  gentleman  looked,  as  the  moonlight  showed,  inter 
estedly  at  the  speaker  :  "  Another  story  with  a  lesson  in 
it  ?  "  he  said.  "  If  it  were  not  for  keeping  you  out  so  late, 
I  would  ask  you  to  do  me  the  favor  of  telling  it." 

"  Ay,  sir,"  said  Skipper  George.  "  I  said  there  were 
amany  lessons  sent  us.  This  one  corned  nearer  to  me 


80  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

again  than  the  tother.  I  hope  I've  larned  somethun  by 
that  story !  Fishermen  don't  heed  night  hours  much : 
but  it's  late  for  you  as  well,  sir.  Mubbe  'ee'd  plase  to 
walk  inside  a  bit?"  he  asked,  with  modest  urgency. 
"  It's  a  short  story,  only  a  heavy  one !  " 

"  Another  time,  perhaps,"  said  the  strange  gentleman  ; 
"  not  now,  if  you'll  excuse  me  ;  but  if  it  wouldn't  be  too 
much  trouble  I  would  thank  you  for  it  where  we  are. 
One  hour  or  another  is  much  the  same  to  me." 

At  the  first  words  of  this  answer  Skipper  George 
turned  a  look  of  surprise  at  the  stranger,  and  when  the 
latter  had  finished  speaking  asked, 

"  Be  'ee  stayun  hereabouts,  then,  sir  ?  " 

Perhaps  he  may  .have  thought  it  strange  that  one  who 
looked  so  like  a  clergyman  should  be  staying  for  any 
length  of  time  in  the  neighborhood  without  being  better 
known. 

"I  am  a  clergyman,"  said  the  gentleman,  frankly; 
"  but  not  of  your  church ;  and  I  don't  feel  free  until  I'm 
better  known." 

Skipper  George  apparently  weighed  the  answer.  He 
did  not  urge  his  invitation ;  but  his  open  face  became 
clear  and  kindly  as  ever. 

"  Then,  sir,"  said  he,  "  ef  'ee'd  plase  to  be  seated  here, 
I'd  tell  the  story.  I  know  it  well." 

Before  beginning  it  the  fisherman  cast  a  look  at  his 
house,  and  then  gazed  awhile  upon  the  restless  waves 
which  here  glanced  with  the  gleam  of  treacherous  eyes, 
and  there  were  dark  as  death. 

"  Do  'ee  mind  about  ten  years  ago,  in  Newfoundland, 
sir  ?  "  began  Skipper  George,  turning  his  steady  eyes  to 
his  hearer,  and  speaking  as  if  the  date  or  the  years 
since  the  date  had  been  painful  to  him ;  "  the  hard 


SKIPPER  GEORGE.  81 

year  that  was  when  they  had  the  'rails/  they  called 
'em?" 

"  Yes ;  though  I  was  in  England  at  the  time,  I  know 
pretty  well  what  happened  in  Newfoundland.  It  was  a 
sad  time." 

"  Ay,  sir,  'twas  a  sad  time.  Many  people  suffered : 
some  wanted  food,  and  more  agen  got  broken  in  spirit, 
(and  that's  bad  for  a  man,)  and  some  got  lawless  like. 
'Twas  a  sad  time,  indeed ! "  Skipper  George,  having 
lingered  thus  before  his  tale,  began  it  abruptly  :  "  Well, 
sir,  'twas  on  the  sixteen  day  of  January, — a  Thursday 
'twas, — I  was  acomun  down  Backside  from  the  Cosh, 
hau'ling  a  slide-load  o'  timber,  an'  my  youngest  son  wi' 
me.  It  had  abeen  a  fine  day,  first  goun  off,  (for  a  win 
ter's  day,)  wi' just  a  flurry  o'  snow  now  and  agen,  and  a 
deal  o'  snow  on  the  ground,  tull  about  afternoon  it  begun 
to  blow  from  about  west  and  by  nothe,  or  thereaway, 
heavy  and  thick,  an'  growun  heavier  an'  heavier,  an' 
bitter  cold.  Oh  !  'twas  bitter  cold !  We  did  n'  say  much 
together,  George  an'  I,  but  we  got  along  so  fast  as  ever 
we  could.  'Twas  about  an  hour  or  two  before  night, 
mubbe  ;  and  George  says  to  me,  *  Let's  lave  the  slide, 
Father ! '  'Twas  n'  but  we  could  ha'  kep'  on  wi'  it, 
though  'twas  terrible  cold,  hard  work  ;  but  'twas  some- 
thun  else ! 

"  So  we  turned  the  slide  out  o'  the  way  and  laved  her, 
and  corned  on.  'Twas  blowun  gales  up  over  Backside  ; 
we  could  sca'ce  keep  our  feet ;  an'  I  hard  somethun  like  a 
voice — I  suppose  I  was  thinkun  o'  voices — an'  I  brought 
right  up  into  the  wind.  'Twas  just  like  beun  at  sea,  in  a 
manner,  and  a  craft  drivin'  right  across  our  wake,  an' 
would  ha'  been  out  o'  sight  an'  hearun  in  a  minute.  Then 
I  knowed  by  the  sound  'twas  the  Minister — (we  did  n' 


82  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

have  e'er  a  reverend  gentleman  of  our  own  in  they  days  ; 
but  'e  lived  over  in  Sandy  Harbor  and  'e'd  oose  to  go  all 
round  the  Bay.)  We  could  sca'ce  bide  together,  but  I 
was  proper  glad  to  meet  un,  (for  a  minister's  a  comfort, 
'ee  know,  sir ;)  an'  'e  said,  '  Is  any  body  out  ? '  *  There's 
two  o'  brother  Izik's  orphans,  sir,  I'm  afeared,  an'  others 
along  wi'  'em,'  I  said.  So  'e  said,  '  God  help  them ! ' 

*  Where  are  your  two  other  boys,  James  and  Maunsell  ? ' 

*  Along  wi'  brother  Izik's  two,'  I  said.     'Twas  blowun 
tarrible   hard,   and   cold,  and   thick;    an'    the   Minister 
turned  wi'  us,  and  we   corned  up,  ploddun  through  the 
driftun  snow,  and  over  the  rudge.     When  we  opened  the 
door,  first  the  mother  thought  there  was  four  of  us  ;  and 
so  she  said,  '  James  ! '  for  we  was  all  snowed  over  ;  but 
she  sid  there  was  only  three,  and  'twas  the  Minister  wi' 
us  two.     So  she  begged  his  pardon,  an'  told  un  our  poor 
boys  were  out  agunnun,  an'  she  was  an  ole  punt  they  had. 
We  were  all  standun  (for  we  didn'  think  o'  nawthin  but 
the  boys)  when  two  corned  into  the  door  all  white  wi' 
snow.     'Twas  n'  they  two,  sir,  but  'twas  my  nevy  Jesse 
an'  another.     '  Haven't   they  corned  ? '  'e  said.     i  Dear, 
what's  keepun  they  ? ' 

"  Jesse  had  abin  out,  too,  wi'  Izik  Maffen  and  Zippity 
Marchant,  an'  they  were  all  over  to  back-side  o'  Sandy 
Harbor  together ;  on'y  our  poor  young  men  were  about 
three  parts  of  a  mile  further  down,  mubbe.  So,  when  it 
corned  on  to  blow,  Jesse  an'  his  crew  made  straight  for 
Back-Cove  an'  got  in,  though  they  were  weak-handed, 
for  one  had  hurted  his  hand-wrist, — and  so,  in  about 
three  hours,  they  got  round  by  land,  an'  thought  the 
tother  poor  fellows  would  do  so  well.  '  What  can  us  do, 
Uncle  Georgie  ?  '  'e  said  ;  for  he's  a  proper  true-hearted 
man,  sir,  an'  'e  was  a'mos'  cryun.  (  First,  we  can  pray,' 


SKIPPER   GEORGE.  83 

said  the  Minister ;  an'  so  he  said  a  prayer.  I  make  no 
doubt  I  was  thinkun  too  much  over  the  poor  young  fel 
lows  ;  and  the  wind  made  a  tarrible  great  bellowing  down 
the  chimley  and  all-round  the  house,  an'  so  I  was  ruther 
aw'y  from  it  more  'an  I  ought.  Then  the  Minister  an' 
Jesse  an'  I  started  out.  My  mistress  didn'  want  me  to 
go ;  but  I  couldn'  bide  ;  an'  so,  afore  we'd  made  much 
w'y  up  harbor  agen  the  wind,  an'  growun  dark,  (though 
twasn'  snowun,)  we  met  a  man  comun  from  tother  side, 
Abram  Frank,  an'  'e  said  last  that  was  seen  of  our  four 
was,  they  were  pullun  in  for  Hobbis's  Hole,  an'  then 
somethun  seemed  to  give  way  like,  wi'  one  of  'em  rowun, 
an'  then  they  gave  over  and  put  her  aw'y  before  the 
wind,  an'  so  as  long  as  they  could  see  any  thing  of  'em, 
one  was  standun  up  sculling  astarn.  (That  was  my 
James,  sir !  ") 

A  very  long,  gently-breathed  sigh  here  made  itself 
heard  in  the  deep  hush,  and  as  Mr.  Debree  turned  he 
saw  the  sweet  face  of  Skipper  George's  daughter  turned 
up  to  her  father,  with  tears  swimming  in  both  eyes  and 
glistening  on  her  cheek.  She  had  come  up  behind,  and 
now  possessed  herself  quietly  of  her  father's  hand. 

"  So  we  turned  back,  an'  the  Minister  wi'  us,  ('twas  a 
cruel  night  to  be  out  in,)  an'  the  wind  a'mos'  took  an' 
lifted  us,  an'  sot  us  down  by  the  foot  o'  the  path  over  the 
rudge  ;  but  when  we  got  atop  here,  and  it  corned  athwart, 
it  brought  us  all  down  kneelun,  an'  we  could  sca'ce  get 
over  to  the  door.  The  poor  mother  got  up  from  the 
chimley-corner  and  came  for'ard,  but  she  needn'  ask  any 
thin  ;  an'  there  was  a  pretty  young  thing  by  the  fire 
(this  girl  was  a  little  thing,  asleep,  but  there  was  a  pretty 
young  thing  there)  that  never  got  up  nor  looked  round ; 
'twas  Hilly  Ressle,  that  was  troth-plight  to  James.  They 


84  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

was  to  have  been  married  in  a  week,  ef  the  Lord  willed ; 
and  'twas  for  Vs  house  we  were  drawun  out  the  timber. 
She  just  rocked  herself  on  the  bench. — She's  gone,  long 
enough  ago,  now,  sir ! 

"  So  the  Minister  took  the  Book,  and  read  a  bit.  I 
heard  un,  an'  I  didn'  hear  un ;  for  I  was  aw'y  out  upon 
the  stormy  waters  wi'  the  poor  young  men.  Oh,  what 
a  night  it  was  !  it's  no  use  !  blowun  an'  bellowun  an' 
freezun,  an'  ice  all  along  shore  to  leeward ! 

"  Well,  then,  sir,  about  two  hours  o'  night,  there  corned 
a  lull,  an'  then  there  was  a  push  or  shake  at  the  door,  an' 
another, — an'  another, — an'  another, — (so  it  was,  we  all 
thought,)  and  then  the  door  banged  open.  There  wasn' 
a  one  of  us  but  was  standun  upon  'is  feet,  an'  starun  out 
from  the  kitchun,  when  it  opened.  'Twas  nawthing  but 
cold  blasts  corned  in,  an'  then  a  lull  agen  for  a  second  or 
two.  So  I  shut  to  the  door  ;  an'  the  poor  mother  broke 
out  acryun,  an'  poor  Milly  fell  over,  an'  slipped  right 
down  upon  the  hearthstone.  We  had  a  heavy  time  of  it 
that  night,  sir  ;  but  when  the  door  banged  open  that  time, 
this  child  that  was  a  little  thing  then,  lyun  upon  the 
bench  sleepun,  made  a  soart  of  a  gurgle,  like,  when  the 
first  sound  corned  to  the  door,  and  then  when  the  flaws 
o'  wind  corned  in  she  smiled,  and  smiled  agen,  and 
laughed,  as  ef  a  body  m'y  be  sayun  pooty  things  to  her 
in  d'y-time.  Jesse  sid  it,  an'  plucked  me  by  the  coat- 
sleeve,  and  I  sid  it,  too. 

"  Well,  sir,  night  passed :  'ee  may  be  sure  we  didn' 
sleep  much,  on'y  cat-naps  ;  and  once  or  twice  I  failed 
into  a  kind  of  a  dwall,*  an'  started,  thinkun  they  was 
speakun  to  me.  Mornun  corned  slow  and  cold — colder 
than  night.  So  the  nighbors  corned  in  at  mornun,  and 
*  Doze. 


SKIPPER  GEOEGE.  85 

sat  by  ;  and  now  an'  agen  one  'ould  say  they  were  fine 
young  men ;  an'  after  a  bit  another  'd  say  James  was  a 
brave  heart,  and  how  he  saved  a  boat's  crew  three  years 
ago,  scullun  them  into  B'y-Harbor ;  an'  so  they  said  how 
lie  begun  to  teach  in  Sunday-school  Sunday  before ;  an' 
how  brave  'e  was,  when  they  sid  the  last  of  un,  scullun 
aw'y  round  the  point  and  over  the  b'y,  for  t'other  side, 
or  for  Bell-Isle,  or  some  place  to  leeward.  So  they  said 
James  'ould  take  'em  safe,  plase  God,  an'  we'd  hear  of 
'em  some  place  over  the  b'y  in  a  d'y  or  two.  Then 
they  said  they  wondered  ef  the  young  men  could  keep 
from  freezun  their  handes,  an'  said  mubbe  they  wouldn' 
git  touched,  for  they  was  all  well-clothed,  an'  James  'ould 
keep  up  their  spirits,  an'  brother  Izik's  little  George  was 
a  merry  boy,  an'  great  play-game  for  the  rest ;  an'  my 
Maunsell  an'  'e's  tother  cousin,  John,  were  steady  young 
men,  an'  wouldn'  give  up  very  easy ;  but  they  were  both 
quiet,  and  looked  up  to  James,  though  John  was  a  good 
bit  older. 

"  Wull,  sir,  the  day  went  on,  cold,  cold,  an'  blowun 
heavy,  an'  the  water  black  an'  white,  wi'  white  shores,  an' 
slob-ice  all  along ; — an'  more,  agen,  an'  heavier,  to  lee 
ward,  sartenly.  We  could  ri'  stir  hand  or  foot  that  day, 
nor  next ;  but  the  Lord's  day  came  in  softer,  an'  we  got 
a  good  crew  an'  a  stout  punt  to  sarch  for  the  four 
poor  boys  that  had  been  three  days  a  missun,  and  old  Mr. 
Williamson,  the  clerk  that  is  now,  sir,*  made  a  prayer 
over  us  before  we  laved.  When  we  come  to  put  off,  they 
left  me  standun ;  I  make  no  doubt  but  Jesse  maned  to 
spare  me ;  but  I  called  un  back,  for  I  said,  why  should  I 
be  settun  wi'  my  hands  folded,  or  walking  about,  lookun 
out  over  the  water,  and  I  may  just  so  well  be  doun  some- 
*  Parish-clerk. 


86  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

thun  like  a  father  for  my  sons  an'  for  ray  brother's  or 
phans? 

"  We  made  for  Broad  Cove ;  for  so  we  thought  the 
wind  would  ha'  driven  the  poor  young  fellows  a-Thursday  ; 
but  we  couldn'  get  into  Broad  Cove,  for  the  slob  an'  cakes 
of  ice.  The  shore  looked  tarrible  cruel ! " 

Skipper  George  sate  thoughtful  a  moment,  and  then 
began  again. 

"At  Port'gal  Cove,"  he  continued,  looking  over  the 
water,  "  they  did  n'  know  about  e'er  a  punt,  an'  no  more 
they  did  n'  at  Broad  Cove,  nor  Holly-Rood ;  for  we  staid 
three  days,  an'  walked  an'  sarched  all  over.  An'  so  a 
Thursday  morn  agen  we  corned  back  home  ; — 'twas  cold, 
but  still.  So  when  we  corned  round  Peterport-Point, 
(that's  it  over  at  the  outside  o'  Blazun  Head,  yonder,) 
every  man,  a'most,  looked  over  his  shoulder,  thinkun 
mubbe  they'd  got  in ;  but  'twas  n'  so.  They  had  n'  come, 
nor  they  hadn'  been  hard  from.  So  my  mistress,  an' 
Milly,  an'  George,  an'  I,  an'  this  maid  kneeled  down  after 
I'd  told  'em  how  'twas,  an'  prayed  to  the  good  Lord. 

"An'  so  we  waited,  an'  did  n'  hear  from  the  four  poor 
boys,  not  for  a  good  many  days  !  " 

Skipper  George  stopped  here  again  for  a  while. 

"A well,  sir,  then  there  corned  word  over,  that  some 
men  had  abin  found  at  Broad  Cove ! — It  was  n'  known 
who  they  were ;  but  we  knowed.  So  they  got  Mr.  Wor- 
ner's  boat,  an'  a  crew  of  'em  went  round,  an'  Skipper 
'Enery  Ressle,  an'  Skipper  Izik  Ressle  (that  was  Milly's 
father,)  an'  Skipper  Izik  Marchant,  ('e  was  n'  Skipper 
then,  however,)  but  a  many  friends  goed  in  her, — I  could 
n'  go  that  time,  sir. 

"  'Twas  about  sun-goun-down,  she  corned  in.  Never  a 
word  nor  a  sound !  She  looked  black,  seemunly ;  an'  no 


SKIPPER   GEORGE.  87 

colors  nor  flag. — 'Tvvas  they !  Sure  enough,  'twas 
they! 

"A  man  had  sid  a  punt  all  covered  wi'  ice,  an'  hauled 
her  up ;  an'  when  he  corned  to  clear  away  the  ice,  there 
was  a  man,  seemunly,  in  the  for'ard  part !  He  called 
the  nighbors ;  an',  sure  enough,  there  'e  was,  an'  another 
one,  along  wi'  un ;  an'  both  seemunly  a-kneelun  an'  leanun 
over  the  for'ard  th'art.  They  were  the  two  brothers, 
John  an'  little  George,  frozen  stiff,  an'  two  arms  locked  to 
gether  !  They  died  pr'yun,  sir,  most  likely  ;  so  it  seemed. 
They  was  good  lads,  sir,  an'  they  knowed  their  God ! 

"  So,  then,  they  thought  there  was  n'  no  more " 

The  fisherman  here  made  a  longer  pause,  and  getting 
up  from  his  seat,  said  "  I'll  be  back,  after  a  bit  sir ; "  and 
walking  away  from  Mr.  Debree  and  his  daughter,  stood 
for  a  little  while  with  his  back  toward  them  and  his  head 
bare. 

The  maiden  bent  her  gentle  face  upon  her  knee  within 
her  two  hands.  The  moonlight  glossed  her  rich  black 
hair,  glanced  from  her  white  cap,  and  gave  a  grace  to 
her  bended  neck.  At  the  first  motion  of  her  father  to 
turn  about,  she  rose  to  her  feet  and  awaited  him.  Upon 
him  too, — on  his  head,  bared  of  its  hair,  above,  on  his 
broad,  manly  front,  and  on  his  steady  eye, — the  moonlight 
fell  beautifully.  Mr.  Debree  rose,  also,  to  wait  for  him. 

Skipper  George  came  back  and  took  up  his  broken 
story. 

"  Bumbye,  sir,  when  they  corned  to  the  after-part  of 
the  boat,  there  they  found  a  young  man  lyun  in  the  starn- 
sheets,  wi'  no  coat,  an'  his — an'  his — his  poor,  lovun  arm 
under  'is  brother's  neck ; — an'  the  tother  had  the  jacket 
rolled  up  for  a  pillow  under  his  head,  an'  I  suppose  'e 
died  there,  sleepun  upon  the  jacket,  that  'is  brother  rolled 
up  for  un." 


88  THE  NEW   PRIEST. 

The  voice  of  the  father  was  very  tender  and  touching ; 
but  lie  did  not  give  way  to  tears. 

"  So,  sir,  that  young  man  had  done  'is  part,  and  sculled 
'em  safe  right  along  AVI'  the  tarrible  cruel  gale,  aw'y  over 
a  twenty  miles  or  more,  to  a  safe  cove,  an'  his  hand- 
wristes  were  all  worn  aw'y  wi'  workun  at  the  oar ;  but  'e 
never  thought  of  a  cruel  gate  of  ice  right  afore  the  cove ; 
an'  so  we  made  no  doubt  when  'e  found  that,  in  dark 
night,  and  found  'e  could  n'  get  through,  nor  'e  could  n' 
walk  over,  then  'e  gave  hisself  up  to  his  God,  an'  laid 
down,  an'  put  his  tired  arm  round  his  brother ;  an'  so 
there  they  were,  sir,  in  short  after  that,  (it  couldn'  ha' 
been  long,)  there  was  four  dead  men  in  their  boat, 
awaitun,  outside  o'  Broad  Cove,  tull  some  one  'ould  come 
an'  take  their  poor  bodies,  an'  strip  aw'y  the  ice  from  'em 
an'  put  'em  in  the  ground,  that  comes  more  nat'ral,  in 
a  manner,  sir ! 

"  — They  did  n'  find  e'er  an  oar, — whatever  becomed 
of  'em ;  but  they  found  their  poor  guns,  an'  the  two  or 
phans  had  their  names  cut '  John  Barbury,'  an'  '  George 
Barbury,'  an'  one  of  'em  had  '  Pet — '  for  Peterport,  an' 
couldn'  cut  no  more,  for  cold — an'  death. 

"There  was  three  guns  cut;  an'  one  had  'James 
Barb — ,'  that  poor  Maunsell  must  ha'  cut,  poor  fellow, 
afore, the  deadly  cold  killed  un.  So  the  kind  people  that 
found  the  poor  boys,  they  thought  James  was  a  respectable 
young  man,  an'  when  they  corned  to  lay  'em  out,  in  the 
school-house,  (they  were  proper  kind,  sir,)  they  put  a 
ruffle-shirt  on  him,  o',  linen. 

"  So,  sir,  the  Minister  corned  over  an'  buried  the  dead. 
Four  coffins  were  laid  along  the  aisle,  wi'  a  white  sheet 
over  every  one,  because  we  had  n'  palls :  James,  an' 
Maunsell,  of  George,  an'  John,  an'  little  George,  of  Izik ; 


SKIPPER  GEORGE.  89 

an'  we  put  two  brothers  in  one  grave,  an'  two  brothers  in 
another,  side  by  side,  an'  covered  them ! 

"  There  was  two  thousand  at  the  funeral ;  an'  when  the 
Minister  couldn'  help  cryun,  so  I  think  a'most  every  one 
cried,  as  ef  'twas  their  own ;  an'  so  we  hard  that  people 
that  lived  on  Kelley's  Island  hard  singun  goun  by  in  the 
dark,  like  chantun  we  haves  in  church.  They  said  'twas 
beautiful,  comun  up  an'  dyun  aw'y,  an'  so,  goun  aw'y 
wi'  the  wind.  It's  very  like,  sir,  as  Paul  an'  Silas  sang 
in  prison,  so  they  sang  in  storm ! 

"  Then  Milly,  poor  thing,  that  never  goed  back  to  'er 
father's  house,  took  a  cold  at  the  funeral,  seemunly,  an' 
she  died  in  James's  bed  a  three  weeks  after !  She  was 
out  of  her  mind,  too,  poor  thing ! " 

After  another  silence,  in  which  Skipper  George  gazed 
upon  the  restless  deep,  he  said, 

"  I  brought  home  wi'  me  the  best  stick  from  the  timber, 
and  laved  the  rest,  an'  no  one  ever  touched  it,  an'  there 
it  staid.  So  next  winter,  sir,  my  tother  poor  young  man 
died  in  the  woods,  o'  masles ;  ( — thank  God !  we  never 
had  to  move  in  *  till  I  lost  my  fine  boys,)  an'  the  next 
sixteen  day  of  January  I  set  up  my  pillar,  as  Jacob  set 
his  pillar,  an'  this  is  my  pillar,  sir.  I  said  the  Lord  gived, 
an'  the  Lord  have  tookt  away ;  blessed  be  the  name  of 
the  Lord. — All  the  riches  I  had  I  thought  'twas  gone." 

"  You  said  riches  came  again,"  said  Mr.  Debree,  deeply 
interested  and  affected. 

"Ay,  sir.  My  maid  is  gone  back  to  the  house.  I  can' 
tell  'ee  what  she  is,  sir.  There's  a  plenty  in  the  harbor 
will  speak  o'  Lucy  Barbury,  sir.  I  hope  'ee'll  excuse  me 
for  keepin  'ee  so  late." 

"  I  thank  you,  with  all  my  heart,  for  that  beautiful 
*  Into  the  woods  to  be  near  fuel. 


90  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

story,"  said  Mr.  Debree,  shaking  the  fisherman's  hand. 
"  Good  night,  Skipper  George !  You  have  learned  a 
lesson,  indeed,  and,  with  God's  grace,  it  shall  do  me  good. 
It's  a  noble  lesson ! " 

"  The  Lord  showed  me  where  to  find  it  in  my  Bible 
an'  my  Pr'yer-book,  sir.  I  wish  'ee  a  good  evenun,  sir." 

So  there  was  a  historic  beauty  (to  those  who 

knew  them)  about  the  girls  in  that  house. 

They  were  the  only  remaining  children  of  George 
Barbury.  Skipper  George,  as  he  was  called,  though  he 
neither  owned  nor  **  sailed "  a  schooner,  had  lost  his 
greatest  wealth  (as  things  go  here) — three  fine  sons, — all 
three  in  early  manhood ;  two  at  one  time,  and  afterward 
his  last.  This  was  a  great  loss.  It  made  the  father 
stronger  in  himself,  standing  alone  and  stretching  upward ; 
but  it  desolated  this  world  very  much  for  him.  Those 
sons  would  have  enlarged  his  family;  with  them  and 
theirs  he  would  one  day  have  manned  his  schooner  for 
"  the  Larbadore."  *  He  would  have  been  another  man  at 
the  head  of  such  a  race. 

They  were  all  gone  now  ;  and  the  father  was,  perhaps, 
the  better  man  for  it ;  (a  brave,  good,  kindly  man  he 
was  ;)  and  the  people  respected  him,  and  they  called  him 
"  Skipper  "  as  a  token  of  respect. 

One  of  these  girls  remained,  and  one  was  given  to  him 
after  his  loss  ;  and  Lucy  had  grown  into  a  young  woman  ; 
and  in  her  case,  most  certainly,  it  was  a  good  thing  that 
her  father  had  made  up  his  mind  never  to  set  his  heart 
on  any  human  thing.  He  had  her  with  him  often  on  the 
water,  and  he  was  glad  to  watch  her  at  her  work  at  home 
and  hear  her  read  ;  yet  steadily  he  threw  her  on  herself, 
(in  his  homely  wisdom,)  to  make  a  woman  of  her  ;  and 
*  Labrador. 


SKIPPER  GEORGE.  91 

himself  looked  out  of  his  more  lonely  life,  with  great 
fatherly  eyes  upon  her ;  rejoicing  in  her  beauty  and 
goodness,  and  thoughtfulness,  and  hoping  much  from  her ; 
but  counting  her  as  not  altogether  belonging  to  himself. 

She  had  her  own  end  before  her  from  her  childhood, 
which  seemed  to  be  do  her  utmost  work  in  the  world ; 
and,  first,  to  fill  her  brothers'  place.  She  did  not  ask  or 
talk  ;  but  she  took  heed,  and  heard,  and  saw,  and  felt 
and  thus  grew  and  learned.  At  ten  years  of  age  she  first 
made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  never  grow  into  a  man, 
and  so  fill  up  her  father's  loss.  When  some  chance  con 
versation  first  brought  her  to  this  point,  (which,  very 
likely,  she  had  feared  before,)  there  was  seen  a  flow  and 
ebb  of  blood ;  and  tears  got  as  high  as  the  level  of  her 
lids ;  and  then,  without  asking  or  saying,  she  knew  that  it 
was  a  woman's  place  she  was  to  have.  So  in  all  girls' 
ways  she  did  her  utmost,  and  into  whatever  she  did  or 
learned,  she  threw  herself  with  all  her  might. 

Her  mother  was  a  most  sensible  woman,  with  much  the 
same  spirit  as  her  husband's ;  and-  being  younger,  by  ten 
years  or  so,  than  he,  was,  for  that  reason,  more  a  com 
panion  of  her  daughter.  For  other  teaching  than  she  got 
at  home  and  on  the  water,  there  was  the  school  which 
Mr.  Wellon  had  succeeded  in  establishing,  where  Lucy 
Barbury  outlearned  every  thing ;  and  Mr.  Wellon,  finding 
this  quiet,  pretty  little  girl  so  bright,  taught  her  himself,  in 
some  things,  and  lent  her  books.  Miss  Dare  made  much 
of  her,  too ;  talked  with  her,  and  listened  to  her,  and  en 
couraged  her,  and  read  with  her ;  and  Lucy  grew  aston 
ishingly  in  wisdom  and  even  in  what  is  learned  from 
books. 

This  night,  within  the  house  again,  for  a  while,  Lucy 
Barbury  sate  looking,  with  absent  eyes,  at  her  father,  who 


92  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

himself  sate  late ;  then  she  trimmed  the  lamp,  and  busied 
herself  with  paper  and  pencil. 

It  was  all  silent  till  their  evening  prayer-time ;  then, 
late  as  it  was,  Lucy  read  the  New  Testament  lesson  for 
the  day ;  and  the  father  used  the  evening  collects  of  the 
Common-prayer-book,  holding  little  Janie  again  in  his 
arms ;  and  then  the  little  gathering  was  broken  up. 

It  was  the  parents'  way  to  leave  their  daughter  to  her 
own  times,  and  she  trimmed  her  lamp  and  sate  in  the 
chimney  after  they  were  gone  to  bed. 

The  next  morning  they  found  her  lying,  in  her  clothes, 
upon  her  bed,  burning  with  fever. 

Dr.  Aylwin  was  sent  for,  from  Brigus,  and  said  that 
"  it  was  severe,  and  would  not  be  over  in  a  day — or  two." 


A  MEETING. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A    MEETING. 

\  AYS,  fair  and  foul,  went  by ;  the  fever  kept  about 
its  slow  work  in  Marchants'  Cove,  and  Skipper 
George's  daughter  was  sick.  There  came  a  very 
beautiful  afternoon,  on  the  twelfth  of  that  August.  All 
was  fair,  as  if  there  were  no  provision  in  either  sea  or 
sky  for  rain. 

The  wind  from  the  sea  was  sweeping  steadily  over  the 
"  gould  "  bushes  on  the  Backside ;  the  sky  overhead  was 
clear,  and  if  a  cloud  floated,  it  was  above  the  wind ;  and 
there  it  sailed  slowly,  as  if  it  were  a  barge  from  which 
some  lovely  spirits  gazed  upon  the  happy  earth.  The 
little  breakers  played  quietly,  (at  this  distance  no  sound 
comes  up  from  them,)  rejoicing,  apparently,  among  them 
selves,  as  if  they  were,  what  they  are  often  called,  living 
"  white  horses." 

The  wind  took  little  notice  of  the  childish  trees  that 
lifted  up  their  heads  among  the  bushes,  but  scarcely  yet 
above  them,  and  swept  on  toward  the  farther  woods  and 
inner  barrens,  there  to  lay  by  what  it  was  bringing  of 
health  and  freshness  from  the  main. 

The  day  was  such  as  often  draws  one's  longings  for 
wards,  forwards,  as  the  sweet  wind  goes,  and  brings  into 
the  mind  a  gentle  sorrow,  because  it  cannot  go  along 
farther  or  faster  than  the  heavy  body. 


94  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

This  neighborhood  has  seldom  any  stir  of  human  life, 
and  birds  and  insects  are  not  frequent  here.  The  paths 
are  travelled  most  in  winter ;  for  they  lead  over  to  the 
woods,  crossing  some  swamps  and  ponds,  perhaps,  in  the 
way ;  and  these  are  frozen  at  that  season.  They  can  be 
traversed,  however,  (some  of  them,)  at  other  times,  by 
those  who  are  familiar  with  them,  with  no  worse  risk  than 
that  of  getting  a  wet  foot  at  a  careless  moment,  and  they 
are  shorter  ways  of  communication  between  the  houses 
on  the  harbor-road  in  Peterport  and  the  next  settlement, 
towards  Bay-Harbor,  than  is  the  main  highway. 

Some  simple  flowers  grow  here  among  the  stones  and 
shrubs,  and  berries  in  their  season.  The  linncea  borealis 
puts  up  its  pretty  pinkness,  (confounded  with  the  blossom 
of  the  cranberry  by  the  people ;)  spiked  willow-weed ; 
golden-rod ;  the  sweet  flower  of  the  bake-apple,  and  other 
pretty  things  grow  quietly  upon  this  ground,  which  is 
scarce  habitable  for  man.  The  graceful  maidenhair,  with 
its  pretty,  spicy  fruit ;  plumboys,  bake-apples,  crackers, 
partridge-berries,  horts,  and  others  enrich  the  barrenness, 
and  make  it  worth  the  while  for  women  and  children  to 
come  and  gather  them. 

On  this  particular  day,  at  this  particular  time,  the 
single  figure  of  a  gentleman  in  black  dress  was  crossing 
the  surface  of  the  shrubbery,  just  about  midway  between 
the  harbor's  head  and  the  outer  point.  He  was  walking 
moderately,  and  any  one,  who  saw  him  nearly,  would 
have  seen  his  hands  clasped  before  him,  and  a  thoughtful, 
serious  look  upon  his  face.  Whoever  knew  him  would 
have  known  afar  that  it  was  the  new  Romish  priest. 

Just  as  he  turned  a  short  corner,  where  the  growth  of 
little  firs  was  rather  thicker  than  elsewhere,  there  started 
up  at  his  step  a  pretty  thing ;  no  bird,  but  a  sweet  little 


A  MEETING.  95 

girl,  with  the  flushed  face  of  one  who  had  been  stooping 
long,  and  the  loose  locks,  that  were  a  fairer  covering  for 
the  lovely  head  than  the  straw-hat  which  hung  adown 
her  shoulders.  The  little  thing,  before  collecting  her 
self, — before  seeing  fairly  the  person  who  had  come  so 
suddenly  upon  her, — said  in  a  startled  way,  "  Who  are 
you  ?  " 

After  looking  at  him  for  a  moment,  however,  she  came 
straight  up  to  him,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  face,  and  said, 
"I've  got  a  great  many  berries." 

At  the  same  time  she  held  up,  in  a  sweet  way,  still 
looking  straight  upon  his  face,  her  apron,  heavy  with  the 
load  that  she  had  been  gathering. 

"  Thank  you,  my  little  child ;  I  don't  want  any  of 
them,"  answered  Mr.  Debree,  scarcely  heeding  the  chil'd, 
who  was  looking  up  so  steadily  upon  him.  Then,  as  the 
little  creature  was  about  to  turn  away,  rebuffed  and  dis 
tanced  by  his  manner,  he  recalled  himself  from  his  ab 
stractedness,  and,  condescending  to  her,  asked, 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  take  one  of  your  berries  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  please,  a  great  many.  Were  you  looking 
for  me  when  you  came  here  ?  " 

"  No,  my  child,"  answered  he  again  kindly,  "  I  didn't 
know  that  you  were  here." 

"  Oh !  yes.  I've  been  here  a  great  while  ;  I've  been 
here  a  great  many  hours  ;  I  don't  know  how  long  I've 
been  here.  Do  you  know  my  mamma  ?  " 

"  No.  I  don't  know  your  mamma,"  said  he,  patiently 
keeping  up  the  conversation  with  the  talkative  little  thing, 
whose  voice  was  as  pleasant  as  her  look,  and  who  evi 
dently  wished  to  become  better  acquainted. 

"  Does  your  mamma  let  you  come  and  stay  here  so 
long  all  alone  ?  "  inquired  he  on  his  part. 


96  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  Why,  no !  I'm  not  alone.  Don't  you  see  ?  "  said  the 
young  thing,  with  that  directness  and  satisfaction  of  hav 
ing  the  advantage  of  a  "  great  man,"  which  also  grown-up 
children  show  in  the  same  way  when  they  find  themselves 
better  informed  in  some  particular  than  some  others 
are. 

As  she  said  these  words,  there  rose  from  the  near 
bushes  a  merry  laugh  of  little  ones,  who  had  been  hearing 
all,  unseen,  and  had  been,  very  likely,  on  the  point  of 
breaking  out  before. 

"  Don't  you  hear  those  children  ?  They  are  with  me  ; 
and  there's  a  woman  over  there,  with  a  pink  ribbon  round 
her  neck,  sitting  by  that  rock  ;  don't  you  see  her  ?  She'll 
see  that  we  don't  get  into  any  mischief." 

Mr.  Debree  smiled  as  she  reported  so  glibly  these  last 
words,  words  which  sounded  as  if  they  had  made  a  part 
or  the  whole  of  the  request  or  injunction  given  when 
the  children  set  forth  from  home.  In  the  direction  to 
which  his  eye  turned,  as  she  spoke,  the  woman  "  with  the 
pink  ribbon,"  was  plainly  to  be  seen  at  no  great  dis 
tance. 

These  are  tenacious  little  things  these  children  ;  and  a 
kindhearted  man,  though  he  be  a  childless  Romish  priest, 
cannot  rudely  break  away  from  one  of  them  that  wishes 
to  detain  him.  Father  Ignatius,  though  a  little  reserved, 
was  very  gentle  in  his  manner,  and  his  voice  had  no 
repulsive  tone  in  it ;  the  child  seemed,  as  children  do,  to 
draw  towards  him.  She  took  his  hand,  although  he  had 
several  times  turned  to  go  on  his  way,  and  prepared  to 
lead  him  back  again  over  his  steps.  He  gently  resisted. 

"  Where  do  you  mean  to  lead  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  as  if  abashed,  and  then, 
loosing  her  hold  of  his  hand,  and  turning  one  little  foot 


A  MEETING.  97 

round  upon  it's  toe,  swaying  her  body,  at  the  same  time 
a  little  away  from  him,  asked  timidly, 

"  Don't  you  want  to  go  and  see  my  mamma  ?  " 

"  But  I  don't  know  your  mamma,  my  child,"  he  an 
swered,  taking  this  opportunity  to  effect  his  purpose  of 
keeping  on  his  path  ;  so  saying  "  Good  bye  ! "  he  walked 
away.  He  turned  his  head  ere  long,  and  saw  the  child 
unsatisfied  standing  still  upon  the  same  spot ;  her  hands 
holding  up  her  loaded  apron,  her  head  bent  forwards,  and 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  ,,He  stooped  hastily,  and  has 
tily  came  back,  saying:  "There's  a  pretty  little  flower 
for  you  that  I  found  under  the  fir-tree  yonder." 

"  Mamma  said  I  was  a  little  flower  that  grew  in  the 
shade,"  said  the  child,  and  then,  as  if  trying  again  to 
establish  an  intercourse  between  herself  and  her  chance- 
companion,  asked  him  suddenly, 

"Are  you  a  minister  ?  " 

"  Yes.     What  made  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  Mr.  Wellon  ? "  continued  she  in  her 
course  of  interrogation. 

"  Yes,  I  know  him,"  he  answered,  once  more  turning 
to  be  gone. 

"  Do  you  love  Mr.  Wellon  ? "  she  went  on,  following 
out  her  own  little  train  of  thought.  "  I  know  him,  and 
I  love  him  very  much ;  do  you  ?  "  She  put  the  second 
interrogative  at  the  end  of  the  sentence,  to  compensate 
for  the  diversion,  in  the  middle  clause,  from  the  opening 
question,  as  one  brings  up,  to  its  first  level,  a  rope  that 
has  sagged  in  its  length  midway. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  as  kindly  and  quietly  as  before,  and 
not  persisting  now  in  going  on. 

"  Mr.  Wellon  hasn't  any  little  children  ;  have  you  got 
any  little  children  ?  "  she  asked. 


98  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  No,"  answered  he,  turning  away. 

"Are  you  a  Romis'  pries'?"  was  her  next  inquiry, 
using  the  words  (except  for  childishness  of  pronunciation) 
as  familiarly  as  if  she  had  been  reading  and  spelling  out 
of  a  book  of  controversy,  the  little  thing ! 

Seeing  the  gentleman  change  color  slightly,  or  noticing, 
perhaps,  some  other  slight  change  which  a  child's  eye  so 
readily  detects  and  a  child's  mind  interprets  as  well  as  it 
knows  how,  she  hastened  to  ask  him,  looking  abashed, 

"Is  that  bad?"      . 

"  Oh,  no.  But  what  made  you  think  of  it  ?  Where 
did  you  hear  about  Romish  priests  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  where  I  heard  it.  I  heard  it  some 
where,"  answered  the  little  one,  in  her  simplicity.  "I 
heard  mamma  say  it,  and  Mr.  Wellon." 

"  Did  they  say  that  I  was  one  ? "  said  he,  in  a  lower 
voice  than  before. 

"  No ;  they  didn't  say  you ;  they  said  some  men  were 
that." 

"  And  what  sort  of  man  do  you  think  it  is  ?  " 

"  I  think  it's  a  man  like  you." 

"  And  why  do  you  think  it's  a  man  like  me  ?  "  he  asked 
again,  smiling. 

I  don't  know  ;  I  think  it  is,"  the  little  thing  said,  giv 
ing  a  child's  reason. 

"And  is  it  somebody  like  Mr.  Wellon,  do  you 
think?" 

"  Oh  !  no.  It  isn't  a  man  like  Mr.  Wellon,"  said  she, 
decidedly. 

"  What  is  Mr.  Wellon,  then  ?     Do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  know  Mr.  Wellon  is  a  minister  of  God," 
she  answered,  looking  up  to  him. 

"  Who  is  your  mamma  ?  " 


A  MEETING.  99 

"  Her  name  is  Mrs.  Barre,  and  my  name  is  Mary 
Barre.  I'm  her  little  daughter." 

"  And  how  old  are  you,  child  ?  "  he  inquired,  looking 
away,  over  the  water. 

"  I  shall  be  a  big  girl  pretty  soon.  I'm  going  on  six. 
That's  pretty  big,  isn't  it?  Mamma  says  I  shall  be  a 
woman  pretty  soon,  if  I  live,  because  my  papa's  gone." 

Mr.  Debree,  at  these  words,  looked  back  at  the  child, 
and  said,  "  "Where  is  he  gone  ?  " 

She  answered  as  if  she  were  sure  of  having  made  a 
friend  of  him,  "  I  think  he's  gone  up  in  the  sky ;  for  my 
mamma  wears  black  clothes,  and  cries  sometimes ;  and 
that's  what  people  do  when  some  one  goes  up  in  the  sky. 
I  think  he's  been  gone  about  thirty  years."  This  last  she 
said  with  the  same  innocent  confidence  as  the  rest ;  lavish 
ing  the  time  like  any  other  treasure  of  unknown  worth. 

Her  companion  did  not  smile,  but  stood  and  looked  at 
her,  and  then  turned  again  and  walked  away ;  and  the 
little  thing,  as  if  satisfied  with  having  established  so  much 
of  an  acquaintance  as  to  have  let  him  know  who  she  was, 
and  how  old,  turned  up  the  path,  without  looking  back. 

Presently  she  was  singing  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  as 
she  sat  upon  a  stone  : — 

The  iceberg  f  oats,  all  still  and  st'ong, 

From  the  land  of  ice  and  snow : 
Full  fifty  fallom  above  the  sea, 

Two  hundred  fallom  below." 

Then  as  if  her  little  rhyme  had  been  a  sacred  hymn,  from 
Holy  Writ  or  the  Church  Service,  she  added,  "  Glory  be 
to  the  Father,  and  to  the  Son,  and  to  the  Holy  Ghost, — in 
the  beginning, — ever  shall  be,  world  avout  end,  Amen." 

The  children,  who  had  been  playing  or  picking  berries, 


100  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

close  at  hand,  started  up  like  a  covey  of  birds,  and  joined 
little  Mary,  and  the  "  woman  with  the  red  ribbon,"  who 
was  not  far  off,  came  at  almost  the  same  moment. 

"  What  was  'e  saying  to  'ee,  lovey  ?  "  and  "  what  did  'e 
come  back  for  ? "  and  "  what  did  he  tell  'ee  about  a 
praste  ?  "  "  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  and  other  like,  were  the 
cloud  of  questions  that  swarmed  about  little  Mary  from 
the  woman  and  the  children  ;  the  woman  not  forgetting  at 
the  same  time,  to  put  the  straw  hat  which  had  been  hang 
ing,  as  we  said,  from  our  little  acquaintance's  neck,  into 
its  proper  place  upon  her  head. 

From  amidst  this  swarm  of  sharp  interrogatories,  Mary 
started  off  to  flee.  She  fell  and  scattered  a  good  many  of 
her  berries  before  she  got  far,  gathered  up  as  many  as 
she  could,  before  the  company,  which  followed  slowly, 
overtook  her,  and  then  managed  to  keep  in  front  of  them, 
and  then  of  such  as  were  left  of  them,  (for  they  dropped 
off  by  degrees,)  until  she  reached  her  home. 

Mrs.  Barre,  in  receiving  her,  thanked  the  woman  who 
had  kept  her  in  sight,  and  bought,  at  the  same  time,  some 
quarts  of  berries,  by  way  of  returning  a  favor  ;  then  took 
Mary  up  in  her  arms,  and  hurried  to  hear  her  account  of 
her  doings. 

"  Please  ma'am,"  called  the  worthy  neighbor  after  her, 
"  there  was  a  gentleman  stopped  and  talked  wi'  she  some 
while.  He  said  no  harm,  I  don't  think,  for  I  kept  anighst 
'em,  but  'e  was  this  'am'  handsome-looking  praste  that's 
corned,  as  they  says,  to  live  in  the  harbor ;  'is  name's 
somethin,  I  don'  rightly  mind  ;  and  he  gave  her  bit  of  a 
posey,  ef  she's  a-got  'n  now." 

The  mother  thanked  her  again,  and  for  informing  her 
of  the  child's  talking  with  that  gentleman,  saying  she 
would  ask  about  her  afternoon's  adventures. 


p 
A  MEETING.       .  101 

To  this  the  little  adventurer  herself,  fresh  from  the  ex 
citement,  assented  very  cordially. 

"I  talked  very  kindly  to  him,  mamma,"  said  Mary, 
when  they  were  alone  together,  inside.  "I  told  him  I 
was  your  little  girl,  and  he  wanted  to  know  what  a  Ro- 
mis'  pries'  was,  and  I  told  him  I  thought  he  was  a  Romis' 
pries' ;  and  he  asked  me  whether  my  papa  was  gone  up  in 
the  sky." 

"  Are  you  sorry  that  your  papa  is  gone  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Barre. 

"  Yes,  I  always  am  sorry ;  why  do  you  ask  me  that  a 
great  many  times,  mamma  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  I  forget ;  and  I  want  you  to  love  Heav 
enly  Father  very  much,  and  pray  to  Him.  Where  is  the 
flower  he  gave  you,  darling  ?  " 

"  There  it  is,  mamma,  and  I'll  give  it  to  you,"  said  the 
little  one,  dragging  it  forth  from  among  her  berries. 

"  Thank  you,  love,"  said  her  mother,  kissing  her,  and 
taking  the  flower,  which  she  did  not  return. 


* 

102  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER  XL 

SOME    GOSSIP   AND    SOME    REAL    LIFE. 

§F  an  outlandish  frigate  had  come  in  and  furled  her 
broad  sails,  and  dropped  her  heavy  anchors,  and 
swung  round  to  them,  with  her  strange  colors  flying, 
and  lowered  away  a  half  dozen  black  boats,  and  held  them 
in  tow  at  her  side  and  astern,  and  lay  there,  with  foreign- 
looking  marines  pacing  in  her  main  chains,  and  a  crowd 
of  foreigners  swarming  on  her  decks,  there  would  have 
been  some  stir  in  the  quiet  little  town  of  Peterport,  and 
its  quiet  neighborhood.  The  people  would,  probably, 
have  managed  to  go  out  to  the  ledge  to  fish,  and  the 
women  would,  probably,  have  contrived  to  spread  and 
turn  their  fish  on  the  flakes,  and  hoe  their  gardens, — all 
besides  gratifying  their  curiosity ;  and  those  who  might 
come  from  afar  to  gaze  upon,  and  ask,  and  talk  about,  the 
outlanders,  would,  probably,  get  through  their  usual  day's 
work  besides  ;  but,  far  and  near,  and  for  a  long  time,  the 
thing  would  be  in  their  thoughts  and  in  their  talk,  on 
land  and  on  water,  at  flake  and  at  fireside. 

So  it  was  with  the  coming  of  the  Romish  priest  to 
Peterport  The  people  talked,  and  wondered,  and  feared ; 
and  some  one  or  two  of  the  warmer-spirited  wives  pro 
posed  to  have  him  driven  off. 

Mr.  O'Rourke,  the    Roman    Catholic   merchant,  was 


SOME   GOSSIP  AND   SOME  REAL  LIFE.  1Q3 

either  seen  more,  or  more  observed,  and  the  remaining 
people  of  his  persuasion,  planters  and  others,  were  thought 
to  have  (very  naturally)  an  air  of  more  than  common 
confidence  and  satisfaction.  Still  more  was  this  supposed 
to  be  the  case  in  Castle  Bay,  where,  though  the  place 
itself  was  less  considerable,  the  number  of  Roman  Cath 
olics  was  twice  as  large. 

Young  Urston's  case,  and  the  epidemic  that  had  settled 
itself  in  March  ants'  Cove,  and  seemed,  now,  to  have  laid 
hold  on  Lucy  Barbury,  divided,  with  the  other  topic,  the 
public  mind  of  Peterport.  There  was  a  general  wish 
that  the  Minister  were  in  the  harbor,  as  well  for  the  sake 
of  the  sick,  (of  whom,  though  none  died,  yet  several  were 
affected  with  a  lasting  delirium,)  as  for  the  safeguard  of 
the  place  against  the  invasion  of  the  adverse  Priest. 

The  upper  circle  was  a  small  one : — The  Minister,  the 
widowed  Mrs.  Barre,  the  Warners,  and  Miss  Dare ;  the 
merchant,  stipendiary-magistrate,  and  churchwarden,  Mr. 
Naughton;  Mr.  Skipland,  a  merchant;  Mr.  McLauren, 
the  other  churchwarden,  living  near  Frank's  Cove, — a 
worthy  Irishman, — (the  three  latter  being  unmarried 
men,)  and,  lastly,  the  O'Rourkes,  Roman  Catholics,  made 
the  whole  round.  The  members  of  it  had  some  subjects 
of  interest  beside,  but  they  had  chiefly  the  same  as  those 
that  occupied  the  planters. 

Of  course  the  harbor  heard,  from  open  mouth  to  open 
ear,  the  story  of  the  widowed  lady's  strange  interview 
with  the  Romish  priest ;  nor  was  there  little  speculation 
about  the  unknown  tie  that  bound,  or  had  bound,  them  to 
each  other.  They  had  not  met  again,  and  he  was  seldom 
seen  by  day ;  sometimes,  at  night.  Some  said,  of  course, 
that  "  he  walked  in  darkness."  She,  too,  was  not  seen 
often. 


104  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

Miss  Dare  came  and  went  as  ever.  Only  what  follows 
of  what  was  said  and  done  between  her  and  Mrs.  Barre, 
concerns  our  story. 

As  she  came  in,  late  on  the  afternoon  of  little  Mary's 
walk,  her  friend  answered  her  first  question,  which  was 
rather  anxious, — 

"  I'm  well  enough,  Fanny,  thank  you  :  but  you're  look 
ing  pale." 

"  Well  enough  ? "  asked  Miss  Dare,  again ;  for  the 
covering  over  the  blood  in  Mrs.  Barre's  cheeks  was  very 
thin,  and  her  eyes  were  hasty  and  anxious ;  her  two 
hands,  which  Fanny  held,  were  hot. 

"  Yes  ;  well  enough  for  my  need,  Fanny." 

"  Yet  your  life  is  wearing  out,"  said  the  girl,  earnestly, 
"  as  you  said." 

"  I  have  to  use  a  good  deal  of  it.  It  goes  into  the  work 
I  have  to  do." 

Mrs.  Barre  tried  to  smile  as  she  said  this,  but  made  no 
great  effort  for  it. 

Again  her  friend  asked,  anxiously,  "  Does  it  go  on  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  goes ; — perhaps  like  piling  up 
water ;  and  my  chances  are  as  rare  as  spring-tides.  But, 
pray  tell  me,  how  is  Skipper  George's  daughter  ?  " 

"  There's  not  much  change  yet,  I  think.  Dr  Aylwin 
was  there  last  evening,  while  I  was  with  her,  and  told 
me  he  thought  the  fever  like  that  in  Marchants'  Cove, 
but  with  many  symptoms  of  inflammation  of  the  brain. 
He  says  they  vary  very  much,  in  different  cases,  accord 
ing  to  constitution  and  other  things ;  scarcely  any  two  are 
alike.  I  fancy  the  poor  child  may  have  suffered  some 
severe  disappointment !  she  wouldn't  tell  of  it,  if  she  had. 
He  doesn't  say  what  he  thinks  of  her,  except  that  she's  a 
very  sick  girl.  She's  perfectly  crazy." 


SOME   GOSSIP  AND   SOME  EEAL  LIFE.  1Q5 

"Poor  thing!"  said  Mrs.  Barre.  "I  do  hope  she'll 
get  over  it ! " 

Fanny  Dare  went  on,  without  sitting  down, — 

"  Her  father  keeps  up  his  stout  heart,  and  speaks 
cheerily ;  but  he  must  have  hard  work  to  do  it.  As  soon 
as  he  comes  in,  he  goes  straight  to  her  bed,  and  stands 
and  looks  at  her ;  and  he  does  the  same  before  he  goes 
out ;  and  always  finds  something  or  other  to  do  about  her. 
I  think  his  wife  gives  him  a  chance,  on  purpose;  you 
know  what  a  delicate  sense  she  has." 

"  Is  she  crazy  all  the  time  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Barre. 

"  I  believe  so :  she  was,  all  night.  When  she  was 
awake,  she  raved  the  whole  time ;  and  in  her  sleep,  kept 
talking  incoherently.  Her  raving  was  very  sad,  but 
it  was  beautiful.  She  talked  of  twenty  things  that  I 
shouldn't  have  thought  she  knew.  Sometimes,  she  fancied 
herself  out  at  sea,  and  called  to  the  winds  and  sea-birds, 
and  clouds,  and  waves,  and  stars — if  I  could  only  remem 
ber  some  things  she  said ;  and  sometimes,  she  fancied 
herself  inland,  among  mountains  and  caves,  or  meadows, 
or  streams.  Then  she'd  answer  some  person,  perhaps, 
and  argue.  It  was  very  different  from  herself;  but  all 
was  so  good  and  innocent,  even  when  it  wasn't  at  all  like 
her. — I  want  to  sit  up  again,  to-night ;  for  the  doctor 
means  to  come  over  again ;  and  he  expects  the  crisis. 
She  needs  close  and  intelligent  care." 

Mrs.  Barre  looked  up,  with  a  faint  smile  : — 

"  I'm  afraid  that's  not  the  only  reason  why  you  want 
to  go,  Fanny,"  said  she.  "  To-night,  you're  to  stay  here, 
as  you  promised,  with  Mary;  and  I'm  to  watch  with 
her ; — and  do  sit  down.  I'm  sure  you  ought  to  be  tired." 

"I'll  tell  you  the  very  truth,"  answered  Miss  Dare, 
complying ;  "  it  is  not  only  because  I  want  to  see  the 


106  '  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

doctor,  but  I  really  think  I'm  fitter  to  watch  at  night  than 
you  are." 

"  And  you  were  up  last  night ! — Oh  !  no :  I  shall  keep 
you  to  the  first  arrangement.  It  isn't  much  for  me  to 
lose  a  night's  sleep  ;  but  you're  not  used  to  it." 

"  You  think  you're  getting  used  to  it  ?  "  said  Fanny. 
"  Do  you  know,  my  dear  Mrs.  Barre,  how  you've  changed 
within  a  few  days  ?  You  must  try  to  rest ;  certainly  not 
undertake  new  labor." 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Mrs.  Barre,  "  that  I'm  not 
as  well  as  usual ; "  but  there  was  an  anxiousness  in  her 
eyes,  and  a  careworn  look  about  her  face,  as  well  as  a 
nervous  agitation  in  her  manner. 

"  You  won't  insist,  now,  upon  watching  with  Lucy 
Barbury  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  would  really  rather.  It  would  be  a  relief,  as 
well  as  a  satisfaction  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Barre. 

"  Well ;  then,  I'll  go  back  to  my  aunt's,  and  come  down 
after  tea." 

So  saying,  Miss  Bare  took  her  leave. 

Late  in  the  moonlight  evening,  she  walked  with  her 
friend  (there  is  no  danger  here)  towards  Skipper  George's. 
There  were  no  people  in  the  road ;  but  as  Miss  Dare  felt 
a  quiver  in  the  hand  that  lay  on  her  arm,  she  noticed,  a 
good  way  off,  a  man  whose  gait  and  figure  were  remark 
able,  and,  as  they  drew  nearer,  recognized  him  as  the 
Romish  Priest.  No  greeting  or  sign  of  any  sort  passed 
between  them. 

As  the  lady  came,  pale  and  thoughtful-looking,  out  of 
the  night  into  the  house  where  Lucy  Barbury  lay  sick, 
the  father,  with  his  manly  and  dignified  respect,  welcomed 
her  from  his  heart.  The  mother,  overwatched  and  over 
wearied,  was  persuaded  to  go  to  bed ;  but  ^Skipper  George 
kept  his  place,  quietly. 


SOME   GOSSIP  AND   SOME   REAL  LIFE.  1Q7 

There  was  scarce  any  sound,  except  from  the  sick 
maiden,  who  very  constantly  spoke  or  strove  to  sing. 

As  once  a  light  was  carried  in  and  used  about  her,  it 
was  a  touching  sight  to  see  the  girl  who  lately  was  so  glad. 

A  wet  cloth  commonly  lay  on  her  forehead,  shading 
her  eyes  and  hiding  a  good  deal  of  her  face.  .When  it 
was  taken  off,  it  could  be  seen  what  work  the  fever  had 
been  doing.  To  be  sure,  her  rich  black  hair  poured  out 
from  under  her  white  cap  like  a  stream,  and  the  soft,  long 
fringes  of  the  lids  spread  over  her  half-closed  eyes  like  a 
soft  fern-spray  over  the  little  pool  at  the  tree's  foot ;  and 
the  bending  neck  and  sloping  shoulders,  over  which  her 
white  night-dress  was  drawn  and  held  by  a  button,  were 
still  beautiful ;  but  the  eyes  were  deeply  sunk,  and  the 
face  was  thin,  and  the  lips  chapped  and  parched. 

Her  kerchief  and  other  things,  that  had  looked  so 
prettily  upon  her,  lay  with  her  prayer-book  on  a  chair  at 
hand. 

During  the  night  she  dozed,  sometimes,  and  generally 
her  voice  was  heard  in  the  low  raving  of  half-sleep.  It 
poured  forth  as  steadily  as  water  in  a  stream,  and  as 
changing  and  as  formless ;  bright  thoughts  and  strange 
fancies,  and  sweet  words;  being  and  hope,  and  beauty 
and  happiness,  and  home  and  sadness ;  prayer,  song, 
chant ;  things  far  off  and  things  near,  things  high  and  low. 

So  the  slow  hours  of  night  passed ;  and  the  pale,  sad 
lady,  the  body  of  whose  child  had  been  so  lately  laid 
deep  in  the  earth,  ministered. 

In  the  earliest  morning,  about  four  o'clock,  a  neighbor- 
woman  came,  and  the  fisherman  gently  insisted  on  seeing 
Mrs.  Barre  home. 

She  slept  late  into  the  day. 


108  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

TWO    MEET   AGAIN. 

kRS.  BARRfe  had  rested,  after  her  watch,  and 
early  in  the  afternoon  she  walked  out,  down 
the  harbor ;  this  time  alone.  She  passed  Mar- 
chants'  Cove,  and  turn,  and  hill,  and  narrow  way,  to 
Franks'  Cove ;  and  crossing  the  stile,  and  going  along 
the  meadow-path,  and  through  the  gorge  of  the  mountain 
of  rock,  she  stood  in  Mad  Cove.  The  stony  slope  went 
steeply  hollowing  down  to  the  little  shelf  of  land  at  the 
water-side  ;  the-  ridge  of  rock  went  along  to  the  left,  and 
ended  in  the  tall  cliffs  at  the  sea;  near  her  was  the 
widow  Freney's  house ;  a  little  farther  down,  to  the  left, 
the  hovel  of  Tom  Somerset ;  and  down  at  the  bottom  of 
the  slope  were  the  eight  or  ten  houses  of  the  other  people, 
and  the  flakes  of  the  whole  colony. 

What  difference  there  is  between  yesterday  and  to-day  ! 
The  great  earth  has  turned  over  its  twenty-four  thousand 
miles  of  land  and  sea,  cities  and  woods  and  deserts,  be 
tween  ;  twilight,  darkness,  day,  have  come  between ; 
where  a  breath  would  have  reached  yesterday,  there  may 
be,  now,  wide  waves  and  storms  between. 

Mrs.  Barre  stood  thinking  or  remembering  at  the  verge 
of  the  cove. 

By  and  by  she  drew  near  to  Mrs.  Freney's  house,  and 
knocked. 


TWO  MEET  AGAIN.  ]Q9 

The  priests  of  the  Roman  Catholic  denomination  do 
not  visit  generally  among  their  people,  unless  to  adminis 
ter  sacraments ;  but  as  the  door  opened,  Father  Debree 
was  standing  facing  it,  as  pale  and  sad  as  the  pale  sad 
lady  who  unexpectedly  confronted  him.  She  started  at 
the  suddenness  of  the  sight,  closed  her  eyes  for  an  instant, 
but  stood  where  she  was. 

There  was  a  likeness  of  face  and  expression,  beyond 
that  of  the  sadness  and  paleness,  and  of  figure  and  bear 
ing,  also.  There  was  the  same  high  forehead,  and  (except 
that  hers  were  darker)  the  same  full,  thoughtful,  feeling 
eyes. 

"  Must  this  be  ?  "  said  the  Priest. 

"  It  is  ;  beyond  all  hope  ! "  she  answered. 

"  How  can  you  hope  it  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  any  thing  else  ?  "  she  said  ;  "  I  have  but 
one  chief  object  in  life." 

"  But  what  should  bring  us  together,  if  there  be  no 
longer  a  common  faith  ?  " 

"  That  there  may  be  ! " 

"  I  did  not  know  that  I  must  meet  this,  in  coming 
to  this  far-off  place  ! "  the  Priest  said.  "  I  cannot  feel 
the  drawing  of  old  ties  ! — I  cannot  see  you  ! " 

There  was  nothing  like  sternness  or  hardness  in  his 
way  of  saying  this,  but  of  gentle,  fixed  resolve. 

"  I  must !  I  must,  while  I  have  life ! "  she  said,  not 
loudly  but  most  earnestly. 

Mrs.  Freney  stood,  a  silent  and  amazed  listener ;  and 
the  children  looked  up,  wondering. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  Mrs.  Freney,"  said  the  lady ;  "  I  came 
to  ask  about  your  child." 

Mrs.  Freney  was  so  bewildered,  that  she  scarce  knew 
what  to  answer : — 


110  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  She's  doing  well,  thank'ee,  Ma'am ; — I  mean,  he's 
much  the  same." 

Father  Debree  said,  turning  to  her  (not  without  agita 
tion)  : — 

"  If  you  can  send  your  eldest  child  with  me,  I  will  send 
back  by  her  two  or  three  little  things  for  her  brother ! " 

Again  Mrs.  Barre  spoke : — 

"  And  I  shall  not  follow  you  farther  than  just  outside 
the  door ;  but  I  must  say  something  more,  now  God  has 
given  me  opportunity." 

"  Certainly,"  he  answered  ;  I  cannot  be  harsh  or  rude 
to  you.  I  will  hear,  this  once,  and  bring  all  to  an  end. 
Come,  child  !  go  on  ! " 

The  girl  opened  the  door  and  passed  out;  the  lady 
gravely  bowed  to  Mrs.  Freney  and  followed,  and  Father 
Debree,  leaving  a  blessing  in  the  house,  went  last. 

He  bade  the  girl  sit  down  upon  a  stone,  and  walking  a 
few  paces  onward,  stopped  to  talk  with  Mrs.  Barre. 

"  Why  should  we  meet  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  "Why  should  we  meet !  How  can  we  help  meeting, 
if  there  be  heaven  and  hell  hereafter,  and  if  our  Life  and 
Death  depend  upon  our  duty  done  or  undone  ?  I  have 
not  changed ;  what  I  was,  I  am." 

"  All  human  ties  are  loosed  from  me,"  he  said.  "  To 
do  a  priest's  work  is  my  only  duty,  and  my  only  wish.  .  I 
cannot,  even  in  memory,  recall  any  other  tie." 

"What!  is  all  common  life  and  happiness  and  hope 
and  duty — is  every  thing  that  bound  us  together,  perished 
forever  ?  Can  you  strike  it  away,  because  you  will  not 
have  it? — It  all  lives,  here,"  she  continued,  laying  her 
two  hands  on  her  bosom,  "  and  will  not  die  ! " 

"  But  it  is  dead  with  me  !  "  he  answered. 

A  pang,  as  from  a  winged  arrow,  seemed  to  shoot 


TWO  MEET  AGAIN.  HI 

through  her ;  but  when  she  spoke,  her  voice  was  little 
broken. 

"  It  may  be  so ! "  she  said.  "  0  Walter  !  I  claim  no 
love.  I  do  not  ask  for  it.  I  only  ask  that  there  shall 
not  be  a  wall  harder  than  iron  between  us  !  I  only  ask 
that  I  may  have  leave,  from  time  to  time — only  from 
time  to  time — to  speak  to  you,  or  write  to  you,  and  that 
you  will  hear  and  answer  me  !  That  is  not  much  ! — not 
much  from  you  to  me !  If  you  are  as  you  say,  it  cannot 
hurt  you  ! — Walter !  Walter !  " 

Her  eyes  were  only  full  of  tears. 

His  face  quivered  ;  his  frame  was  shaken. 

"  No,  I  cannot !  "  he  said  ;  "  it  must  not  be  !  It  is  im 
possible  ! " 

"  But  I  beseech  you,  for  God's  sake  ! "  she  said,  clasp 
ing  her  two  hands  to  him. 

«  No  ! "  he  answered.    "  For  God's  sake,  I  must  not !  " 

Tears  stood  in  his  eyes  ;  how  could  he  hinder  them  ! 

"  Oh ! "  she  cried,  closing  her  eyes,  and  casting  down 
her  face. 

"  Even  as  a  priest,  you  might  grant  me  this  !  " 

"  As  a  priest,  I  cannot  do  it !  Oh !  do  not  think  it 
cruelty  or  hardness  of  heart ;  my  very  heart  is  being 
eaten  out ; — but  I  cannot ! " 

She  left  him,  instantly,  and  walked  very  hurriedly 
away. 

On,  on,  on  she  went ;  up  the  harbor,  as  she  had  come  ; 
into  her  own  pretty  little  yard,  into  her  house,  up  to  her 
chamber. 

Little  Mary  came  running  into  her  mother's  room,  but 
stopped  ;  for  her  mother  was  kneeling  at  a  chair,  holding 
a  letter. 

The  child  went  down  upon  her  little  knees  at  another 


112  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

chair,  laying  her  cheek  down  upon  her  arm,  with  her  face 
toward  her  mother,  and  pretty  soon  beginning  to  play 
gently  with  the  coral  beads  about  her  neck. 

As  Mrs.  Barre  rose,  she  came  across  and  set  her  lips 
upon  the  forehead  of  her  pretty  little  daughter,  and 
smoothed  her  hair. 

"  Now,  darling,"  said  she,  "  do  you  think  you  can  do 
an  errand  for  me  exactly  as  I  tell  you  ? "  As  she  spoke 
she  folded  the  letter  in  white  paper. 

"  Oh  yes,  mamma  !  "  said  Mary,  eagerly,  "  I'm  sure  I 
can." 

"  There's  a  gentleman  coming  along,  and  you're  to  run 
after  him  and  give  him  this,  and  tell  him  it  belongs  to 
him ;  and  then  you're  to  run  back  as  fast  as  you  can ; 
and  don't  stop  for  any  thing.  Can  you  ?  " 

The  little  ambassadress  was  sure  that  she  could  do  just 
as  she  was  bid,  and  Mrs.  Barre  reiterated  her  instruc 
tions  : — 

"Mind;  you're  not  to  stop  for  any  thing.  If  he 
speaks  to  you,  or  calls  you,  you're  to  run  back  to  me  as 
fast  as  you  can." 

The  child  assented,  and  repeated  her  mother's  words. 

"  It's  a  costly  thing !  "  said  Mrs.  Barre,  looking  forth, 
as  if  from  the  quay  her  eyes  were  following  towards  the 
far  off,  fateful  ocean,  the  full-sailed  ship  that  bore  her  all 
in  one  venture. 

"  Now,  dear  !  Quick !  There  he's  going — don't  for 
get  ! "  she  exclaimed,  breathless.  "  Run !  and  come 
straight  back ! "  The  priest  whom  she  had  met  in  Mad 
Cove  was  just  passing. 

Little  Mary  ran  down  stairs,  and  then  out  upon  the 
road,  with  her  golden  curls  shaking  and  shining  in  the 
sunlight.  The  gentleman  turned  and  took  the  parcel 


TWO  MEET  AGAIN.  113 

from  her  hand  ;  then,  having  opened  it,  looked  after  her, 
as  if  he  would  call ;  but  presently  he  turned  again  and 
walked  on. 

Little  Mary  only  varied  a  little  from  her  orders.  Hav 
ing  run  away  from  him  as  fast  as  she  could  run,  she 
stopped,  as  a  bird  might  stop,  and  looked  back  ;  but  he 
did  not  turn  again,  so  she  came  in. 

This  time,  too,  as  before,  her  mother  was  upon  her 
knees,  and  the  child  stood  looking  out  of  the  window. 
As  her  mother  rose,  she  said : — 

"  That's  the  same  one  I  saw  the  other  day,  mamma ! " 
Her  mother  was  thinking  her  own  thoughts. 

Mary  had  a  child's  way. 

"  Why  do  you  cry  so  much,  when  my  papa's  gone  up 
in  sky,  and  brother  Willie  ?  "  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Barre  wept  silently.  The  little  prattler  went  on 
prattling. 

"  If  I  could  go  up  there,  I'd  ask  Heavenly  Father 
where  my  papa  was.  He'd  know,  wouldn't  He,  mamma  ? 
Heavenly  Father  would  know,  because  He  knows  every 
thing.  He'd  show  me  my  papa ;  and  I'd  go  up  to  him 
and  say,  '  I'm  your  little  girl  Mary,  that  you  left  at 
mamma's  house  when  you  came  up  here,'  and  then  he'd 
know  me." 

The  little  thing  was  not  satisfied  with  the  silent  acqui 
escence  that  she  got. 

"Mamma!  Mamma!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  saw  little 
brother  Willie ! " 

"When,  dearie?"  asked  her  mother,  now  heeding 
her. 

"  Just  now, — a  little  while  ago,— r-and  he  leaded  me  by 
my  hand  near  to  where  Heavenly  Father  was  sitting 
on  his  great  chair.  Then  Heavenly  Father  got  up  and 

VOL.  I.  8 


114  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

opened  his  closet  and  took  down  one  of  our  little  boy's 
playthings,  and  gave  it  to  our  little  Willie  ; — (He  didn't 
give  any  to  me ;)  but  He  looked  at  Willie's  little  sister 
as  if  He  was  glad  to  see  me.  Little  Willie  knew  who  I 
was,  mamma,  because  he  saw  my  paper." 

"  What  paper,  darling  ?  "  asked  her  mother,  entirely 
occupied  with  the  child's  story. 

"  My  paper — don't  you  know  ?  That  you  writed 
'  Mary  Barre  '  on,  for  your  little  girl.  I  throwed  it  away 
up  in  sky,  and  wind  blew  it  away  up,  so  Willie  could  see 
it ;  and  Willie  knew  what  little  girl  it  was." 

"  Come  with  me,  you  dear  little  dreamer !  "  said  Miss 
Dare,  who  suddenly  appeared  at  the  door ;  and,  snatching 
up  Mary,  she  carried  her  off. 

She  set  the  child  under  the  bowery  branches  of  a 
seringa,  and  stood  among  the  shrubs  and  floating  sprays 
of  creepers,  which  she  had  a  year  before  gathered  about 
the  house,  a  fairer  thing  than  the  sunshine  that  was  play 
ing  among  them  ;  and  she  sang  for  the  child's  pleasure  a 
song  broken  into  pauses  now  and  then,  much  as  the  sun 
shine  was,  here  and  there,  broken  into  shade.  Perhaps 
our  readers  have  seen  or  will  see  how  the  song  may  have 
been  suggested. 

"  Woe  for  the  brave  ship  Orient ! 
Woe  for  the  old  ship  Orient ! 
For  in  broad,  broad  light, 
With  the  land  in  sight,— 
Where  the  waters  bubbled  white, — 
One  great,  sharp  shriek ! — One  shudder  of  affright ! 
And— 

down  went  the  brave  old  ship,  the  Orient!  " 

Her  voice  was  a  fine,  full  alto,  never  needing  any 
effort,  but  now  apparently  kept  low,  for  Mary's  ear.  The 
air  which  she  very  likely  adapted  to  the  words,  was 


TWO  MEET  AGAIN.  115 

much  the  same  in  general  as  that  of  the  '  Bonny  house  o* 
Airlie ; '  and  her  voice  flew  upward  and  flitted  from  part 
to  part  among  the  words,  as  a  bird  from  bough  to  bough ; 
but  the  song  all  lived  in  the  singing. 

The  shriek  seemed  to  split  the  air,  and  the  shudder  to 
be  shaking  strong  hearts,  and  a  wail  to  wander  sadly 
over  the  sea,  where  the  good  ship  had  foundered.  She 
paused  here  for  a  while,  and  then  began  again  in  a  sweet, 
tripping  measure : — 

"  It  was  the  fairest  day  in  the  merry  month  of  May, 
And  sleepiness  had  settled  on  the  seas ; 
And  we  had  our  white  sail  set, — high  up  and  higher  yet, — 
And  our  flag  flashed  and  fluttered,  at  its  ease ; 
The  Cross  of  St.  George,  that  in  mountain  and  in  gorge, — 
On  the  hot  and  dusty  plain, — on  the  tiresome,  trackless,  main — 
Conquering  out, — conquering  home  again, — 
Had  flamed,  the  world  over,  on  the  breeze." 

However  it  was  that  she  fitted  the  music  to  the  words, 
it  seemed  much  as  if  every  line  took  its  own  form  in 
leaving  the  singer's  lips,  in  the  fittest  melody. 

"  Ours  was  the  far-famed  Albion, 
And  she  had  her  best  look  of  might  and  beauty  on, 
As  she  swept  across  the  seas  that  day. 
The  wind  was  fair  and  soft,  both  alow  and  aloft, 
And  we  wore  the  idle  hours  away." 

A  straying  lock  of  her  own  hair  was  tossed  by  the 
playful  wind  between  her  lips,  and  she  stood  silent  again  ; 
— the  little  girl  clambered  to  the  top  of  the  fence  and 
seated  herself  there. 

"  Please  sing,  cousin  Fanny ! "  she  said,  when  she  was 
seated.  Miss  Dare  sang  again : — 

"  The  steadying  sun  heaved  up,  as  day  drew  on, 
And  there  grew  a  long  swell  of  the  sea; 

(which  seemed  to  grow  tn  her  singing,  too,) 


116  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

And,  first  in  upper  air,  then  under,  everywhere, 

From  the  topmost,  towering  sail,  down,  down  to  quarter-rail, 

The  wind  began  to  breathe  more  free. 
'Ho!  Hilloa!  A  sail!'  was  the  topmau's  hail — 
*  A  sail,  hull  down,  upon  our  lee ! ' 

Then,  with  sea-glass  to  his  eye, 

And  his  gray  locks  blowing  by, 

The  Admiral  guessed  what  she  might  be ; 

And  from  top  and  from  deck,  Was  it  ship  ?  Was  it  wreck  ? 

A  far  off,  far  off  speck, 

Of  a  sudden  we  found  upon  our  lee." 

"  Here  comes  Mr.  Naughton  !  "  said  the  child  from  her 
perch,  like  the  topman  from  his  lookout  ^  "  and  somebody's 
with  him, — it's  James-  Urston !  " 

Miss  Dare  hastened  to  take  the  little  one  down ;  and 
as  she  was  retreating  into  the  house,  the  voice  of  the  mer- 
chant-churchwarden-and-magistrate  was  heard,  urging 
upon  the  young  lover,  who  had  abandoned  his  preparation 
for  the  Romish  priesthood,  the  excellence  of,  a  life  of  celi 
bacy;  and  regretting  that  Mr.  Wellon  (though  he  was 
unmarried,  certainly)  was  not  under  the  obligations  of  a 
vow. 

Miss  Dare's  song  was  broken  off. 


A  SAD  YOUNG  HEART.  H7 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

A    SAD    YOUNG   HEAKT. 

)HAT  quiet  day  was  passing  down  to  quiet  night ; 
the  sun  was  near  his  setting,  as  young  Urston 
came  alone  along  the  road  and  took  one  of  the 
paths  that  led  up  over  the  hill  to  the  Backside. 

He  started  at  his  name,  called  in  a  cracked  voice,  like 
that  of  a  parrot,  at  his  very  shoulder ;  and,  turning  his 
head,  saw  that  he  was  passing  unaware  a  group  of  two 
old  women,  who  were  standing  against  a  fence,  probably 
chaffing  about  the  gossip  of  the  harbor,  or  croning  over 
memories  of  the  time  when  they  (old  withered  bodies  !) 
were  the  young.  There  are  more  of  these  old  people 
here  than  anywhere,  almost,  so  many  overlive  the  three 
score  years  and  ten.  One  of  these  elders  was  the  Granny 
Pilchard,  a  woman  whose  quickness  and  activity  were 
not  exhausted  yet,  by  a  long  use  of  eighty-one  years  of 
changing  seasons,  and  as  changeful  scenes  of  life.  The 
other  gossip  was  "  Old "  Granny  Frank,  as  she  was 
called,  though  younger  than  her  comrade  by  full  seven 
years.  The  title  "  Granny,"  common  to  them  both,  is  as 
well  a  medical  and  professional  distinction,  in  Newfound 
land,  as  one  implying  age.  Granny  Pilchard  held  at 
this  moment  a  pitcher  in  her  hand,  which  the  young  man 
knew  out  of  a  hundred, — a  little  white  one,  with  just  a 


l]g  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

slender  line  of  blue  along  the  brim.  At  least  he  might 
have  known  it,  and  what  fair  hand  had  often  borne  it. 

"  Good  morning,  Granny,  and  you,  Granny  Frank," 
he  said,  rather  impatiently,  as  if  he  did  not  wish  to  stop. 
When  we  have  met  with  such  a  thing  as  had  lately  hap 
pened  to  young  Urston,  and  wish  to  be  alone,  we  have  at 
the  same  time  (at  all  events  the  young  have,  if  not  all 
of  us)  an  apprehension  that  it  is  all  written  in  English 
on  our  faces,  or  has  been  overheard,  or  carried  by  the 
wind  or  winged  birds ;  perhaps  James  Urston  thought 
so. 

"  Thou'rt  goun  up  over,  Mister  Jemmie  Urston,  I 
think,"  continued  Granny  Palasher,  (this  was  her  vernac 
ular  name,)  in  pursuance  of  her  object  in  addressing  him, 
"  and  'ee'll  most  likely  want  to  stop  and  hear  for  'eeself ; 
and  so  Missis  Frank  says  I'm  wantun  up  at  Riverhead, 
she  thinks,  and  'ee'll  plase  take  this  pitcher  up  to  she.  It's 
a  marsel  o'  water  out  o'  Har-pool  she  wanted,"  (it  will  be 
remembered,  as  James,  no  doubt,  remembered,  how  he 
drank  out  of  that  spring  that  morning,)  "  and  I've  abin 
and  got  un.  'Ee  see  he's  so  fresh  and  clear  as  the  blue 
sky,  in  a  manner.  I  wouldn'  lave  her,  only  the  mother 
'11  be  up,  in  short.  I  s'pose  'ee  baint  afeared  to  see  her 
lovie  ?  an'  nobody  wi'  her  but  the  tother  little  one  ?  Lads 
didn't  oose  to  be  fear'd  o'  maaids,  when  1  was  one." 

Old  Granny  Frank,  at  this  allusion  to  young  days  and 
their  doings,  gurgled  in  her  throat  with  a  cracked  laugh, 
and,  when  she  could  recover  the  poor  little  wheezy  re 
mainder  of  her  voice  from  its  employment  in  laughing, 
uttered  a  few  shrill  and  grating,  though  not  loud,  words 
with  it,  in  confirmation  of  the  last  remark  of  her  com 
panion.  These  came,  one  after  another,  as  if  they  were 
stamped  and  thrown  out. 


A  SAD  YOUNG  HEART.  119 

"  They'd — oose — to  be — tar-ri-ble — boy-ish — when — I 
— know'd — 'em." 

One  of  the  laughy  gurgles  came  after  the  words,  like 
one  that  had  been  separated  from  its  companions. 

The  more  vigorous  Granny  Palasher  proceeded. 

"  Now,  will  'ee  be  so  well  plased  as  " 

"  I'm  in  a  great  hurry,  Granny,"  interrupted  the  young 
man,  not  changing  color,  or  seeming  disconcerted,  but 
with  a  look  of  grave  determination,  "  and  I  can't  very 
well  call  there  this  evening." 

"  Oh !  'Ee  haven'  agot  time  ;  have  'ee  ? "  said  the 
old  woman ;  then  explained  to  Granny  Frank :  "  That's 
that  pretty  Lucy  Barbury,  Granny  !  "  Upon  which  the 
latter  urged  another  laugh  up  her. dry  throat,  and  a  few 
more  words. 

«  'Mm !     So— I've— ahard ! " 

"  I  do'no  what  soart  thes'am'  young  folks  are,  now-a- 
days,"  said  Granny  Palasher.  "  Go  thy  w'ys,  then, 
Mister  James  Urston.  I  feeled  for  'ee,  but  mubbe  I'll 
get  another  young  man  I  knows  of,  in  a  minit." 

The  young  man  did  not  stay  for  parley. 

"  You  may  get  whom  you  like,  Granny  Palasher," 
said  he.  "  I  thank  you  for  your  goodwill ;  but  I'm  in  a 
hurry  just  now.  Good-day  !  "  And,  leaving  the  pitcher 
in  the  bearer's  hand,  he  mounted  the  hill  as  fast  as  before. 

The  granny  made  this  comment  on  his  speech  : — 

"  This'am'  young  chap  thinks  a  body  that's  abin  through 
wi'  everything,  don'  know  the  manin'  o'  things  !  " 

The  thin,  cracked  voice  of  old  Granny  Frank  went  up 
after  him  as  he  mounted,  jerking  its  words  : — 

"  Isn'— 'e— a— Ro-man  ?  " 

He  was  not  yet  beyond  hearing,  when  Granny  Palasher 
answered : — 


120  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  'Is ;  but  there's  no  danger  o'  she." 

He  hurried  on,  and  left  the  old  gossips  to  themselves. 
Up  the  path  he  hastened  toward  the  ridge  bounding  the 
meadow,  at  the  farther  side  of  which  stood  Skipper 
George's  house. 

Mounting,  as  the  sun  mounts  up,  seems  fit  work  for  the 
morning.  There  is  a  spring  in  the  strong,  young  body, 
that  almost  throws  it  up  into  the  air ;  and  airy  wings 
seem  to  lift  one  at  either  side.  But  it  was  evening,  and 
this  young  Urston  had  been,  and  was  now  going,  through 
a  terrible  trial,  and  there  was  a  heaviness  about  his  mo 
tions,  and  a  sad  paleness  about  his  face,  that  did  not 
belong  to  him. 

As  he  got  up  to  the  edge  of  the  little  meadow,  and  it 
lay  before  him,  with  its  several  less-distinguished  tracks, 
— looking  not  so  much  like  different  ways,  as  the  same 
one  unstranded, — and  the  house,  backing  against  the  little 
cliff,  he  paused ;  and  it  is  no  wonder.  They  say  that  on 
some  table-land,  among  the  mountains  of  Quito,  lies  a 
gorgeous  city,  in  which  the  old  Indian  race  still  holds  its 
own.  The  roofs  and  battlements  glitter  with  gold ;  for 
the  people  have  kept,  from  father  to  son,  the  secret  of 
richer  mines  than  any  that  the  whites  have  found  in  Cali 
fornia.  Now,  fifty  yards  across  the  meadow,  at  the  edge 
of  which  James  Urston  stood,  glittered  with  many  sheets 
of  glowing  gold,  the  house  in  which  Skipper  George's 
daughter  was  lying  sick.  It  was  a  plain,  unpainted 
house,  and,  at  any  time  when  the  gold,  which  the  morning 
or  evening  sun  laid  on  it,  had  been  taken  off,  was  but  the 
dwelling  of  an  honest,  poor  man.  Yet  he  looked  long ; 
and  it  seemed  as  if  he  dared  not  set  foot  upon  that  mea 
dow,  any  more  than  if  it  and  the  house  were  an  enchanted 
scene.  There  was  not  a  hundred  yards  of  space  between 


A  SAD  YOUNG  HEART.  121 

him  and  the  house ;  but  what  a  world  of  separation  lay 
between  him  and  Skipper  George's  daughter !  The  very 
golden  glare  of  the  sunlight  from  it  in  his  face — now 
fading — increased  the  separation.  The  reflected  glow 
faded  from  his  person,  and  he  hastily  crossed  the  ridge, 
and  passed  on. 


122  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A    GREAT   LOSS. 

N  the  night  of  the  day  of  which  we  have  been 
writing,  (that  fifteenth  day  of  August,)  Mr.  Wellon, 
who  had  come  across,  in  his  way  home,  from  Por 
tugal  Cove  to  Sandy  Harbor,  in  a  boat  belonging  to  the 
latter  place,  was  sitting  late  in  conversation  with  Mr. 
Kewers,  the  clergyman  of  Sandy  Harbor,  when  suddenly 
the  '  Society '  *  schoolmaster,  a  man  of  an  inquiring  and 
excitable  turn  of  mind,  came  knocking  at  the  door,  and 
announced,  eagerly,  that  some  strange  work  seemed  to  be 
going  on  in  Peterport.  He  said  the  lights  were  moving 
about,  and  there  was  an  unusual  noise ;  something  must 
be  the  matter  there. 

At  this  intelligence  the  two  clergymen  hastily  started 
forth,  in  company  with  the  schoolmaster,  for  Blazing 
Head, — the  lower  and  back  part  of  Sandy  Harbor, — from 
which  a  view  of  Peterport  (when  it  was  to  be  seen)  could 
be  had.  They  reached,  after  a  few  minutes'  walk,  a  high 
point,  and  saw  the  lights,  like  running  sparks  in  chimney 
soot,  and  heard  plainly,  over  the  water,  in  lulls  of  the  wind, 
the  sound  of  human  voices.  At  this  hour  of  night,  and 
with  the  wind  bringing  in  the  great  murmur  of  the  sea, 

*  Of  the  Newfoundland  School  Society. 


A  GREAT  LOSS.  123 

the  far-off  sound  of  human  voices  was  more  than  com 
monly  impressive.  + 

The  schoolmaster,  who  had  been  in  the  island  for  a 
good  many  years,  said  that  the  scene  "  reminded  him  of 
the  4  Rails '  *  they  had  years  ago."  "  There  may  be  a 
child  lost,"  the  Minister  said,  but  none  of  the  three  pre 
tended  to  explain  or  understand  the  singular  circumstance. 
Mr.  Wellon  determined  to  go  home  as  fast  as  possible. 

The  distance  by  the  road  through  Wantful,  (a  little 
hamlet  adjoining  Sandy  Harbor,  on  the  same  tongue  of 
land,)  and  round  the  Riverhead  of  Peterport,  is  about  six 
miles  or  seven,  and  the  way  is  a  picturesque  and  quaint 
one  ;  down  steep  descents,  along  a  narrow  beach  ;  round 
sharp  turns,  under  wide  flakes,  blocked  up  by  a  storehouse 
standing  square  across  it ;  passing  by  the  little,  humble, 
holy-looking  church  of  Wantful,  on  the  hill.  In  the  day 
time,  and  for  one  who  has  an  eye  for  scenery  of  that  kind, 
and  is  not  hurried,  a  ride  or  walk  over  that  road  might 
not  be  tiresome ;  but  in  a  case  like  this — at  such  an  hour, 
and  with  the  rain  beginning  to  fall  from  clouds  which  had 
been  gathering  for  hours,  and  with  the  prospect  of  a  wet, 
dark  night  and  morning,  the  thought  of  walking  round,  for 
Mr.  Kewers  kept  no  horse,  (and  it  was  too  late  to  borrow 
one,)  was  not  inviting. 

Across  from  Back  Cove,  where  two  coopers,  John  Bis- 
sell  and  his  son,  are  in  the  habit  of  ferrying  chance  pas 
sengers,  the  distance  is  but  a  mile  or  so,  and  the  school 
master — whose  curiosity  was  rather  eager,  undertook  to 
make  arrangements,  for  he  himself  meant  to  go,  (if  Mr. 
Wellon  had  no  objection,)  in  case  he  could  be  of  service. 

Nearly  another  hour  passed,  and  then  he  came  again 

*  The  "  Rails  "  (rallies)  were  riotous  gatherings,  during  the  distress 
occasioned  by  the  American  and  French  Wars. 


124  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

with  the  intelligence  that  he  had  made  arrangements  with 
Mr.  Bissell  and  his  son,  promising  them  a  double  fee — 
four  shillings  each ;  (an  amount  which  Mr.  Wellon  imme 
diately  claimed  to  pay,  with  all  charges.)  This  news  was 
a  great  reh'ef,  after  the  long,  tiresome  hours  of  waiting ; 
a  lantern  was  borrowed  of  Mr.  Kewers,  and  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  Mr.  Wellon  and  his  companion  were  in  Back 
Cove  ;  and  very  soon,  under  the  steady  rain,  were  cross 
ing  the  water,  in  charge  of  Bissell  and  his  son.  It  was 
so  dark  that  a  great,  round,  peely  hill  of  rock  which  forms 
one  side  of  Back  Cove — close  to  which  they  were — could 
not  be  seen.  They  set  their  lantern  in  the  bow  of  the 
punt,  and  with  a  strong,  and  steady,  slow  stroke,  the  boat 
men  cautiously  felt  their  way  along.  The  Minister  steered, 
the  schoolmaster,  by  way  of  making  himself  useful,  as  he 
had  proposed,  armed  himself  with  a  spare  oar,  and  under 
took  to  row,  a  way  of  being  useful,  which,  after  several 
times  "  catching  crabs,"  as  sailors  call  it,  and  once  nearly 
demolishing  the  lantern  in  falling  over  backwards,  he  ex 
changed  for  that  of  holding  the  light  and  looking  out 

The  rain  poured  straight  down,  drenchingly  ;  and 
(though  a  good,  thick  overcoat  is  almost  water-proof,)  its 
steady  falling  brought  the  whole  company  to  silence,  as  it 
had  already  deadened  the  wind,  and  smoothed  the  waves 
down  to  the  ground-swell.  In  about  three  quarters  .of  an 
hour  they  made  the  shore  of  Peterport,  below  their  point 
of  destination,  and  worked  up  to  it. 

Marchants'  Cove  was  all  still  and  dark,  except  a  light 
in  Mr.  O'Rourke's  house ;  the  lights  and  sounds  were 
further  down  the  harbor.  The  Minister  left  his  compan 
ions  here,  (the  schoolmaster  keeping  the  boatmen's  com 
pany,  to  be  sure  of  his  passage  back,)  and  alone  went 
down  the  road,  and  took  the  first  considerable  path  over 


A  GREAT  LOSS.  125 

to  the  Backside,  the  place  to  which  they  had  some  hours 
before  been  straining  their  eyes  so  eagerly,  from  Blazing- 
Head. 

On  the  road  he  met  no  one  as  he  had  met  no  one  in 
Marchants'  Cove ;  but  as  he  drew  near  the  meadow  in 
which  Skipper  George's  house  stood,  he  heard  women's 
voices,  and  by-and-by  came  upon  a  company,  who'm  by 
the  ear,  not  by  the  eye,  he  could  distinguish  as  Old  Granny 
Frank  and  others  of  the  neighbors.  They  recognized 
him,  and  announced  among  themselves,  as  he  drew  near, 
«  the  Pareson  !  " 

People  in  this  country  take  no  heed  of  weather,  (when 
they  have  good  reason  to  be  out,)  except  to  dress  accord 
ingly. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Frank ! "  cried  he,  addressing  the  eldest, 
(as  CEdipus  addressed  the  old  man  of  the  chorus,)  but 
turning  for  answer  to  the  others,  "  what  has  happened  ?  " 

The  old  woman  was  doubtless  making  up  her  mouth 
to  speak,  but,  happily,  her  grandson's  wife  spoke  for 
her. 

"  Haven'ee  hard  about  Skipper  George's  darter,  sir, — 
that's  Lucy  Barbury, — how  she's  been  atookt  out  of  her 
father's  house,  ever  sunce  last  evenun,  and  never  a  word 
corned  about  her,  sunce,  whatever  ?  " 

"  Taken  away  ! "  exclaimed  the  Minister,  turning  from 
one  to  another  in  amazement,  "  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  'Is — sir, — an' — her — bed — wi' — her  ;  "  gurgled  the 
Granny,  gaining  her  speech. 

"  They'm  bin  sarchun  all  over,  sir,"  added  Patience 
Frank,  "  an'  Skipper  George  's  inside  now,  w'itun  for 
'ee." 

"  Let  me  see !  "  said  the  Minister,  staying  for  no  further 
talk,  but  hurrying  towards  the  house. 


126  THE  NEW  PKIEST. 

The  old  and  young  women,  and  others,  loitered  for  a 
little  gossip,  and  to  hear  the  end. 

"  Did  'ee  see  the  Pareson,  Grannie,  when  I  told  un  ? 
Did'ee  see  un  shake  his  head  ?  " 

"  To — be — sure — 'e — would,"  answered  Old  Granny- 
Frank  oracularly. 

"  'E  did  then ;  shookt  it  just  this  w'y,"  continued 
Patience.  "  What  do  'ee  think,  Granny  ?  " 

"  It — 'U — be — sid,"  answered  the  granny,  in  her  jerky 
way.  "  'E — doned — I — two — shillun — worth — o' — good 
— wi' — a — pr'y'r — e' — made — t'oth-er — d'y." 

"  Did  um,  then  ?     I  shouldn'  wonder  !  " 

"  Wull ! — some — says — an-gels — an' — some — says — 
faa-ir-ies  ; — but — I — knows — what — I — thinks, — "  said 
the  possessor  of  threescore  years  of  observation  and  ex 
perience. 

"  All  so,  Granny ! "  assented  Patience,  who,  if  she 
should  live  so  long,  was  in  a  fair  way  to  be  as  wise,  "  I 
thinks  gezac'ly  the  same." 

"  Ay, —  child, —  it — '11  —  be  —  sid  —  a-fore — ma-ny — 
d'ys — be — up ; "  and  the  old  body  hurried  away,  while 
she  had  her  mystery  entire. 

As  the  two  speakers  separated,  the  little  gathering  drew 
nearer  to  the  cottage-door,  with  new  food  for  speculation 
in  the  granny's  utterance,  which  had,  somehow,  invested 
the  subject  in  a  more  ominous  perplexity  than  before. 

The  clergyman  passed  straight  to  the  chimney,  where 
the  afflicted  father  sat,  among  many  others,  indeed,  but 
the  one  of  them  all.  There  he  was ;  not  even  smoking 
the  accustomed  pipe,  but  with  his  hands  upon  his  knees 
and  his  chin  buried  in  his  breast,  looking  upon  the  kitchen 
fire.  He  did  not  sit  despondently  and  slouchingly,  but 
upright  like  a  man ;  and  like  a  man  who,  having  done 


A  GREAT  LOSS.  127 

whatever  could  be  done  as  yet,  was  waiting  to  set  forth 
again  and  do  whatever  might  be  left  for  man  to  do.  A 
crowd  of  neighbors  made  their  way  in  after  Mr.  Wellon. 
All  rose,  except  the  father,  at  the  sudden  entrance  of  the 
Minister ;  the  father  did  not  notice  it. 

At  the  sound,  however,  he  immediately  turned  round  ; 
and  a  more  honest,  manly,  kind,  true  face  than  his,  has 
seldom  met  the  open  air,  and  the  broad  sunlight,  or  fronted 
tearing  wind,  or  drenching  rain,  or  driving  snow  ;  had 
seldom  met  warm  welcome  from  the  wife,  as  it  was  seen 
through  the  half-opened  door,  or  beamed  complacently 
upon  the  frolic  of  the  children  at  the  hearth ; — but  it  was 
clouded  now.  He  took  off  his  weather-worn  straw  hat,  in 
rising  to  receive  the  Pastor. 

"  Sarvant,  sir ;  you're  very  welcome  home  again,"  said 
he. 

"  Why,  Skipper  George  ! "  said  the  Minister,  "  what  is 
it  my  good  friend  ?  Do  tell  me  ! "  Then  pressing  him 
silently  to  a  seat,  the  Minister  sat  down  to  listen. 

"  Ah,  sir,"  the  father  said,  "  I've  a-sid  heavy  misfort'n 
sunce  the  last  sun  as  ever  rose.  It's  my  Lucy,  sir ;  you 
know'd  her  sir," — his  voice  breaking, — "so  well  as  I 
a'most,  and  oh !  how  she  did  love  the  Minister  to  be  sure  ! 
well,  sir,  she  was  sick  from  short  after  you  laved  the 
harbor  tull  this  evenun :  that's  'isterday  evenun,  I  should 
say." — He  sighed  as  he  thus  reminded  himself  of  the 
time  already  gone,  by  which  the  separation  had  been  so 
much  widened. — "  She  was  goun  through  the  worse  of  it, 
and  we  thowt,  naterally,  that  as  she  didn'  get  no  worse 
she  would  get  better,  if  it  was  His  will,  and  so  the  doctor 
said,  (that's  Dr.  Aylwin,  sir,  of  Brigus.)  So  when  I  turns 
out  in  the  marnin  'isterday, — which  I  doned  nearly  about 
wi'  the  first  sun, — after  I'd  said  my  bit  of  a  pr'yer,  I  says 


128  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

to  myself,  as  a  body  will,  you  know,  sir,  I  says,  now  I 
think  I'll  jes  go  down  to  B'y  Harbor,  mubbe,  after  I  got 
through  fishing,  and  get  a  marsel  o'  figs,*  or  sech-like,  for 
my  poor,  dear  maid ;  hopin,  mayhap,  the  faver  m'y  take 
a  turn,  and  then  they'd  help  her  to  goody  a  bit ;  and  any 
how  I  had  a  two  and  sixpence  that  I'd  a-kep  this  many's 
the  d'y  against  I  may  want  it,  and  a  body  likes  to  do 
summat  cheery  for  a  sick  darter  when  he  can ;  so  I  goes 
and  I  looks  upon  her,  and,  to  my  seemin',  she  looked  jest 
as  ef  it  wus  an  angel  a  layin'  there,  that  had  put  on  my 
gal's  look,  and  her  face,  and  her  hair.  She  looked  so 
bright  somehow, — so  oncommon  bright,  I  was  a'most 
afeared  to  kiss  her ;  but  I  did,  sir,  thank  God ;  I  did,  sir, 
and  it  seemed  in  a  manner,  to  bring  my  darter  back  ;  for 
she  says,  very  low  like,  <  Father ! '  she  says, '  What  lovey  ? ' 
says  I ;  '  Dear  father  ! '  says  she,  and  nothin'  more ;  and 
I  couldn'  help  it,  but  I  cried  much  as  I'm  doin'  now,  sir ; 
but  I  do'no  why  I'm  so  long  a  tellin'  it,  on'y  I'm  afeared 
to  get  upon  the  rest  of  it.  However,  I  went  out  and 
corned  home  wi'  my  few  fish,  and  hurried  and  got  off  and 
went  over  to  Backside,  and  got  myself  put  over  to  Bread 
an'  Cheese  Cove,  and  so  travelled  afoot  the  rest  part  o' 
the  w'y,  and  got  the  trifle  o'  things,  and  came  round  by 
Castle  B'y  river-head.  I  s'pose  I  might  be  gone  a  matter 
of  six  hours,  most  likely ;  when  I  got  to  the  top  'o  the 
hill  by  the  church  and  sid  the  house,  I  s'pose  I  might  'a 
felt  it  was  empty;  but  I  didn't,  sir.  It  seemed,  in  a 
manner,  as  ef  strength  blowed  out  of  it,  somehow,  to  me, 
I  growed  so  much  livelier ;  and  I  stowed  aw'y  my  little 
parcels  in  my  pockets,  thinkin',  perhaps,  she'd  feel  in  'em, 
pl'ying  like,  as  she'd  oose  to  do,  when  she  feeled  herself 
better.  So  I  walks  up  to  the  door,  and  lo  and  behold  it 
*  In  common  parlance  this  word  means  raisins. 


A  GREAT  LOSS.  129 

was  open ;  but  I  thought  nothin'  strange  and  I  went  in, 
and  right  into  the  place  where  I'd  aleft  her,  sir,  and  she 
wasn't  there.  '  Mother ! ' — says  I ;  but  my  missis  wasn't 
there  :  *  Granny  ! '  says  I,  but  she  wasn't  there  ;  then  my 
t'other  little  gal  that  was  sittin'  down  by  the  door,  tryin' 
to  tie  her  shoe,  and  cryun',  said,  *  Daddy,  she's  gone  aw'y, 
Daddy,'  she  said,  '  Daddy,  she's  gone  aw'y,  Daddy  ; '  and 
my  heart  went  once  jest  as  a  fish  would  go,  and  I  never 
asked  her  who  she  maned,  but  I  sid  there  was  somethun 
tarrible  strange  ;  and  so  I  sat  down  on  the  binch  and  gave 
one  great  sigh  like,  that  seemed  to  ase  me  ;  and  then  I 
got  up  and  tookt  my  poor  little  papers  and  put  them  on 
the  bed,  and  follyed  right  out  to  see  ef  I  could  find  what 
had  becomed  of  her.  So  we  sarched  all  evenun,  and  we've 
asarched  all  night;  and  so — I'm  sittun  here,  as  I  be 
now,  sir, — 'Twas  a  bad  night  for  she  ! — Ah,  Veil !  God 
knows." 

As  he  said  this  the  bereaved  man  sat  and  wept,  openly 
and  steadily,  in  silence.  Not  a  motion  was  made  nor 
a  word  said  until  he  wiped  his  eyes  with  the  back  of  his 
hand,  and  turned  his  honest,  manly  face  again,  and  said  : — 

"  I  found  my  mistress  ;  an'  I  found  Granny  Palasher  ; 
an'  I  sid  Miss  Dare  that  was  just  comun  up  ;  I  could  find 
every  body  ;  but  we  never  found  my  dear  young  maid ! 
It  isn'  like  we  woul',  sir.  God's  will  be  done,  however. 
'Ell  do  what  'E  sis  best." 

The  simple  story  ended,  he  turned  quietly  away  from 
his  hearer,  as  if  there  were  nothing  more  for  him  to  say, 
and  he  would  listen  now. 

The  Minister  came  up  and  took  his  hand  in  both  his, 
and  said  "  Amen  !  "  There  was  a  general  motion  among 
the  company,  and  many  repeated  the  word.  The  Minis 
ter's  voice  trembled  as  he  said — 


130  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  God  bless  you !  Skipper  George  ;  we  must  find  her, 
or  find "  He  paused. 

The  fisherman  made  that  most  expressive  gesture  of 
head  and  hand  which  is  read  in  all  languages,  and  touches 
any  class  of  men,  meaning — 

"  Ah  !  you  needn't  say  it,  sir !  I  know." 

"  Let's  see  where  we  are,"  said  the  Minister,  and  he 
turned  toward  the  company,  among  whom  was  the  con 
stable.  "  Mr.  Gilpin,  you  know  all  about  it  ?  "  he  asked 
of  this  worthy  man,  who  was,  also,  one  of  the  two  smiths 
of  the  place.  Charles  Gilpin—"  Mr.  Galpin,"  «  Mr.  Gul- 
pin,"  "  Skipper  Charlie,"  as  he  was  variously  called,  was 
an  Englishman,  middle  sized,  with  a  face  dark  by  nature, 
and  always  wearing  a  shade  of  grime  from  his  "  forge," 
and  slightly  pitted  by  the  varioloid.  His  right  eye  was 
wanting,  h*aving  been  destroyed  by  an  accident  in  firing  a 
salute  on  the  king's  birthday,  in  one  of  his  own  younger 
hours.  The  remaining  orb  in  that  firmament  seemed  as 
much  brighter  as  if  the  other  had  been  absorbed  into  it, 
and  had  joined  its  fires.  He  was  an  intelligent,  pleasant 
looking  fellow,  with  that  quick  motion  of  the  muscles 
about  the  eye  that  marks  the  possession  of  humor. 

"  I've  done  my  best  at  it,  sir,"  answered  the  constable, 
with  modest  brevity. 

"  Who  saw  Lucy  last  ?  " 

"  I  can  tell  'ee,  sir,  ef  'eell  plase  to  let  me,"  said  the 
brave  old  fisherman.  "  I've  got  it  all  by  heart,  in  a 
manner.  'Twas  Granny  Palasher  happened  to  be  bidin 
wi'  her,  (for  we  didn'  oose  to  have  reg'lar  watchers  d'y- 
times,  sir,  only  we  never  laved  her  long,)  an'  so  Lucy 
waked  up  and  called  for  a  drink,  granny  says  ;  an'  she 
didn'  want  tay,  an'  she  did'n  want  spruce,*  an'  she  wanted 
*  Spruce  beer ;  a  common  beverage. 


A  GREAT  LOSS.  131 

a  drink  from  the  Harpool — that's  it  in  the  hollow  under 
the  bank,  t'other  side  o'  the  church,  you  know,  sir ;  an'  so 
the  granny  went  aw'y  to  fetch  it,  never  thinkun  o'  naw- 
thun,  of  course,  an'  nobody's  sid  a  sign  of  her  sunce,  only 
poor  little  Janie  said  she  goed  round  the  corner." 

"  How  long  was  the  granny  gone  ?  " 

"  I  can'  be  exac'ly  accountable,  sir,  how  long  she  was 
aw'y ;  she  m'y  ha'  stopped  to  pass  a  word  wi'  a  nighbor, 
sartainly,  but  'twouldn'  be  long,  it  isn'  likely." 

"  Who  lives  nearest  on  the  Backside  ?  The  Urstons,  I 
think." 

"  Is,  sir ;  Mr.  Urston  that  married  my  missis's  niece." 

"  The  father  of  the  young  man  that  was  going  to  be  a 
Romish  priest  ?  "  asked  the  Minister. 

"  'Is,  sir ;  but  'e've  knocked  off  beun'  a  good  while  sunce, 
and  'e's  a  good  lad,"  said  the  father,  shutting  off  all  sus 
picion  in  that  quarter. 

"  How  do  things  stand  between  your  family  and  their's, 
now  ?  "  asked  the  Minister. 

"  Mr.  Urston's  wife  was  my  missis's  sister,  'ee  know, 
sir, — that  is,  half-sister, — and  then  my  missis  is  a  good 
bit  younger,  and  was  abrought  up  in  England,  mostly, 
tull  she  was  a  woman.  'Twas  Mr.  Urston  an'  his  son  put 
me  over  from  Backside  to  Bread-and- Cheese  Cove.  I 
maned  to  ax  Tummas  Turtas, — lives  a  bit  beyond  they, — 
when  they  were  goun  down  to  waterside,  and  offers  me  a 
passage,  an1  I  could  n'  deny  'em.  Ah ! "  he  said,  coming 
back  to  his  great  grief,  "  she's  alossed  now,  that  I  would  n' 
loss  for  all  the  fish  in  the  sea,  and  swiles  on  the  ice,  and 
fruits  o'  the  land !  Thank  'ee,  kindly,  sir ;  I  ax  pardon 
for  bein'  so  troublesome.  'Ee'll  plase  to  excuse  me, 
nighbors."  So  saying,  Skipper  George  prepared  to  go 
forth  again. 


132  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  It  isn'  d'y light,  yet ;  is  it  ?  "  he  asked,  putting  great 
restraint  upon  himself. 

"  Light's  beginnun  to  come  up  over,  Uncle  George," 
said  Prudence  Barbury. 

Here  the  memory  of  the  pleasant  times  and  pleasant 
words  that  were  gone,  or  the  thought  of  sadness  present 
or  to  come,  again  overcame  him,  as  also  his  words  and  his 
condition  were  more  than  some  of  his  sturdy  neighbors 
could  bear. 

"She  was  too  good  for  this  world,"  said  one;  "an* 
that's  where  she's  gone,  most  like." 

"  No,  Nahthan,  it  won't  do  for  'ee  to  say  that,"  said  the 
father ;  and  then  explained.  "  They  manes  that  God 
have  tookt  her,  sir,  (blessed  be  'E's  name !)  as  'E  tookt 
Enoch,  in  a  manner,  because  o'  what  Jesse  sid ;  (that's 
my  nevy,  Jesse  of  Abram, — lives  under  the  brow  o'  the 
hill, — Jesse  HiU,  we  calls  un ;)  I  didn'  tell  'ee,  sir.  'E 
was  over  on  the  water  against  Backside,  wi'  another, 
jiggin'  for  squids,*  an'  'e  sid  somethin'  like  a  maid  or  a 
'oman,  all  dressed  in  white,  like  an  angel,  goun  over 
Backside-w'y ;  and,  all  of  a  suddent,  she  was  gone  right 
aw'y  like.  'E  couldn'  tell  ef  the  groun'  was  stove,  or 
parted  under  her,  or  how,  'e  said ;  but  it  seemed  to  be 
gone  right  aw'y,  an'  they  never  sid  her  come,  no  more ; 
and  so  'e  corned  right  aw'y  home,  and  told  the  people  'e 
thoft  Vd  asid  a  spirit ;  but  sure,  there's  nawthin'  in  that, 
sir ;  is  there  ?  On'y,  mubbe,  it  might  be  a  kind  of  a 
visage,!  like,  that  my  poor  child  would  never  come 
back." 

"  There  may  be  a  good  deal  in  it,"  answered  the  Min 
ister. 

*  Catching  a  fish  that  serves  for  bait, 
t  Vision. 


A  GREAT  LOSS.  133 

The  eyes  of  all  were  intently  fixed  on  him,  and  the 
father,  even,  lifted  his  from  the  fire. 

"  I  don't  think  it  was  any  spirit,"  continued  their  Pastor. 
"  What  clothes  had  Lucy  on,  most  likely  ?  " 

"  Oh !  nawthin',  sir,  but  just  as  she  was  in  bed.  It  'ud 
make  a  strange  body  cry,  a'most,  to  see  'er  poor  frock 
hangin'  up  there,  and  'er  two  shoes  standin'  by  the  side  o* 
the  bed,  an'  she  aw'y,  an'  never  comun  back,  most 
likely.  Many's  the  time  I've  alooked  at  they,  sunce,  anj 
cried  ;  it  looks  so  heartless,  like." 

The  people  about  Skipper  George  were  no  "  strange 
bodies ; "  and  some  of  them  could  not  help  doing  as  he  had 
done,  and  as  he  did. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  he,  rising  to  depart,  and  holding  his 
weather-worn  straw  hat  in  his  two  honest  hands,  "  I  think 
'ee  knows  all." 

"  I  wouldn't  have  you  go  out  again,  just  yet,"  said  the 
Minister.  "  I'll  take  my  turn,  now,  and  any  fresh  hands 
that  I  can  find." 

"  Here's  one,  then,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  constable,  start 
ing  to  his  feet. 

"  Haven't  you  been  out  all  night  ? "  asked  the  Min 
ister. 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  not  all  day  yet ;  we've  got  the  day  be 
fore  us.  I  can  sleep  when  we've  got  done." 

"  Then  I'll  be  back,  God  willing,  in  little  more  than 
half  an  hour ;  and,  if  you  please,  we'll  go  as  far  as  we've 
any  thing  to  guide  us.  I  want  to  go  over  the  ground,  at 
least,  if  nothing  comes  of  it." 

"I'm  sure  'ee  woul',  sir,"  said  the  father,  in  a  very 
kindly  way.  "  It's  no  use ;  I  can't  .lay  out  plans  now. 
I've  got  my  handes,  and  something  to  make  'em  work;" 
(one  might  almost  see  a  great,  grieving  heart  heave,  as 


134  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

he  said  this.)  "  I'll  bide  'E's  will ;  an'  ef  I  never  sis  her 
walking  on  this  land,  I  may  in  a  better,  ef  it's  'E's  will." 

As  he  spoke  of  not  again  seeing  her,  in  the  body,  he 
brought  up,  with  the  palm  outward,  his  honest,  hard  hand 
whose  fingers  were  bent  with  long  years'  toil,  and  thrust 
away  some  too  attractive  vision,  and,  as  he  said  the  last 
words,  brought  it  down  again  to  its  former  occupation  of 
holding  the  rim  of  his  hat. 

He  stood  still  with  his  grief;  and,  as  Mr.  Wellon 
pressed  his  honest,  hard  hand,  he  lifted  to  his  Pastor  one 
of  those  childlike  looks  that  only  come  out  on  the  face  of 
the  true  man,  that  has  grown,  as  oaks  grow,  ring  around 
ring,  adding  each  after-age  to  the  childhood  that  has 
never  been  lost,  but  has  been  kept  innermost.  This  fish 
erman  seemed  like  one  of  those  that  plied  their  trade, 
and  were  the  Lord's  disciples,  at  the  Sea  of  Galilee, 
eighteen  hundred  years  ago.  The  very  flesh  and  blood 
inclosing  such  a  nature  keep  a  long  youth  through  life. 
Witness  the  genius,  (who  is  only  the  more  thorough  man,) 
poet,  painter,  sculptor,  finder-out,  or  whatever ;  how  fresh 
and  fair  such  an  one  looks  out  from  under  his  old  age. 
Let  him  be  Christian,  too,  and  he  shall  look  as  if — shed 
ding  this  outward — the  inward  being  would  walk  forth  a 
glorified  one. 

"  Sit  here,  among  your  neighbors,  Skipper  George," 
the  Minister  said ;  "  I  mean  to  be  back  shortly. — Another 
great  grief  and  mystery  in  our  little  harbor ! "  he  added, 
as  he  turned  away. 

With  these  words,  he  left  his  sorrowing  parishioner's 
house,  and  went  forth. 


A  NEW  MAN.  135 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A   NEW   MAN. 

S  Mr.  Wellon  left  the  room,  the  attention  of  the 
company  was  drawn  to  a  new  voice,  that  seemed 
almost  to  have  been  started  mechanically  by  the 
general  rising,  so  suddenly,  and  without  warning,  it  began, 

"  Why,  she's  cleared  out  'n  one  'f  her  hot  spells,  an' 
when  she'd  got  light-headed ;  's  no  kind  o'  doubt  o'  that 
'n  my  mind,"  said  the  strange  voice. 

The  speaker  was  an  under-sized  man,  of  thirty-eight 
or  forty  years,  with  well-looking  features,  and  bright,  in 
telligent  eyes.  His  scanty  hair  went  curling  downwards 
from  a  bald  spot  on  the  top  of  his  head,  for  which,  also,  a 
part  of  the  neighboring  locks  were  compelled  to  furnish  a 
thin  covering.  The  baldness  had  been  worn  rather  by 
the  weight  of  the  months'  feet  that  had  gone  over  it,  than 
by  their  number,  or  had  been  dried  by  inward  heat  of 
busy  thought;  his  dress  was  such  as  would  become  a 
higher  sort  of  mechanic,  or  a  trader  on  a  modest  scale. 

The  sentence  seemed  to  be  delivered  forthright  into  the 
middle  of  a  world  all  full  of  opinions,  and  questions,  and 
determinations,  to  find  itself  a  place.  He  looked  before 
him,  but  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  look  at  the  same  time 
to  either  side,  and  his  tone  had  a  character  of  continu 
ance-,  as  if — having  begun — it  rested  with  circumstances 
when  his  ending  would  be. 


136  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

The  company  having  composed  itself,  after  the  Minis 
ter's  departure,  .the  new  speaker  was  seated,  tilting  back 
in  his  chair,  with  his  right  ancle  resting  on  his  left  knee, 
and  his  hat  in  his  lap. 

"  Wall  then,"  he  continued,  "  question  is,  which  way  d'd 
she  go  ?  'F  course  every  body's  got  to  judge  f 'r  'imself 
'n  that  point,  but  I  guess  w'  might  come  p'ty  nigh  it,  'f  w' 
were  jest  t'  talk  it  over  a  little." 

While  saying  this  the  speaker  took  an  opportunity  to 
glance  at  each  of  the  remaining  speakers  of  the  former 
dialogue,  and  at  the  rest  of  the  company  generally,  and 
meeting  with  no  let  or  hindrance,  seemed  to  think  that  he 
had  found  a  place  for  his  opinion,  and  went  on  more  con 
fidently  than  before.  He  did  not  look  at  Skipper  George, 
at  whom  he  chiefly  talked,  but  looked  to  the  left  hand  of 
him. 

The  father  regarded  him  with  grave  earnestness.  The 
constable,  after  flashing  his  eye  at  Skipper  George, 
watched,  curiously,  the  new  interlocutor ;  and  the  other 
neighbors  listened  with  different  degrees  of  eagerness. 

"'SI  understand  f 'm  what's  ben'  said  t'-night,  'n  'f 'm 
what  I've  heard  before  I  come — ('m  pooty  much  t'  home 
'n  Peterport,  ben  here  twelve  hours  o'  daylight,  an'  'taint 
a  large  place) — 't's  pooty  gen'lly  und'stood,  I  guess,  't 
this  young  lady,  'r  gal — whatever  ye  may  call  her — 'Ster 
Barbury's  daughter,  here,"  (turning  to  the  fisherman,  who 
said,  "  Is,  sir,  thank'ee,  my  darter,  an'  more  than  darter 
for  the  like  of  I ; ")  's  be'n  sick  'f  a  sort  'f  a — typhoid 
they  call  'em  'th  us, — same  't  they've  had  down  'n  Mar- 
chants'  Cove,  there,  's  ye  call  it.  Wall !  I  never  saw  s' 
many  folks  out  o'  their  head  'th  that  fever  's  they  is  here, 
not  reg'lar  hoppin  mad,  but  out  o'  kilter  'n  the  uf>per 
regions,  's  th'  sayin'  is.  Wall,  now,  'n  the  hot  fit  come 


A  NEW  MAN.  137 

on,  't  'd  make  her  stronger,  an'  when  her  mind  's  out  o' 
the  way,  ye  see,  'twould,  likely,  make  her  want  t'  try  an* 
do  somethin'." 

The  interest  with  which  his  hearers  had  been  listening 
was  evidently  not  flagging. 

"  It's  Mister  Banks,  the  American  marehant,"  said  Pa 
tience  Frank,  (for  she  was  there,)  to  a  neighbor-woman. 

"  "Wall,  then,  question  comes :  what  would  she  do  ? 
Why,  'cordin'  to.  She  wanted  a  drink  o'  water,  f '  one  thing  ; 
wall,  s'pose  she  'as  very  dry,  sh'  might  go  off  to  git  some, 
likely.  'F  all  she  wanted  was  water  t'  cool  her,  sh'  might 
take  't  into  her  head  to  git  into  the  water ;  but,  then,  bein' 
crazy  don't  make  a  fool  'f  a  gal,  'f  sh'  wa'n't  one  b'fore ; 
and  they  wa'n't  any  thin'  lik'  that  'bout  this  young  lady. 
Then,  don't  ye  see,  the'  was  lots  o'  folks,  by  all  'counts,  on 
the  flakes,  (ye  call  'em,)  an'  round,  an'  one  of  'em  's  her 
mother ;  so  she  didn't  go  down  that  way,  whether  or  no. 
Wall,  then,  again,  'tain't  likely  she  was  all  thust ;  she  had 
some  notions  b'sides  that :  (we  ain't  all  flesh  and  blood,  I 
guess.)  Le's  see." 

It  was  strange  to  see  the  unflagging  attention  of  the  au 
dience  to  this  lengthened  argument,  given,  as  it  was,  with 
no  attractions  of  oratory,  or  enforcement  of  gesture,  except 
an  invariable  sticking  of  the  thumb  and  forefinger  of  the 
right  hand  into  the  palm  of  the  left,  (much  as  we  have 
known  a  good  old  Greek  professor  to  practise  with  his 
pencil  and  a  hole  in  his  inkstand.)  There  was  a  persist 
ency  and  push  in  the  arguer's  voice,  and  an  adhesiveness 
in  his  expressions,  that  carried  his  reasonings  in,  and 
made  them  stick.  So  there  was  a  general  assenting  in 
words,  besides  silent  affirmations  and  negations  of  the 
head,  as  he  affirmed  and  denied. 

"  That's  a  clear  case ! "    "  Surely !  "    "  AU  so,  sir ! "  and 


138  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

the  like,  refreshed  the  speaker  much  as  the  parenthetic 
"  hear  "  and  cheers  of  the  House  of  Commons,  or  as  the 
plaudits  of  the  Athenians  gratified  Demosthenes. 

The  constable,  as  if  his  cue  were  only  to  keep  official 
eye  and  ear  upon  the  speaker,  let  him  go  on,  without 
meddling  with  him,  and  kept  silence.  The  father  heard 
Mr.  Bangs  with  steady  attention. 

'^Wall!"  continued  the  reasoner,  "then  comes  ques 
tion  again ;  which  way  ?  Sis'  says  right,  no  doubt.  Sh' 
went  right  round  the  corner  o'  the  house,  an'  down  to — 
back  part  o'  the  place,  here — " 

"  'Is ;  Backside,  sir,  we  calls  it,"  says  a  neighbor. 

"  Wall,  't's  a  good  name,  no  doubt.  The's  two  roads 
goin'  'long,  up  an'  down,  I  believe — " 

"  Ts,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  neighbors ;  "  there's  the 
summer  w'y  and  the  winter  w'y,  by  Cub's  Cove,  and 
the  Cosh,  and  so  into  the  woods." 

"  Fact,  I'  ben  on  both  of  'em  myself,"  continued  the 
speaker.  "  Then  the's  a  path  goin  from  Skipper  George's 
(s'pose  I  ought  to  call  him) — " 

"  It's  a  compliment  they  pays  un,"  said  the  constable. 

"  Don't  heed  it,  sir,"  said  the  stout  fisherman  ;  "  George 
is  plenty  good  enough  for  I,  alw'ys  ;  and,  most  of  all, 
now." 

If  the  kindness  that  lies  in  such  compliments  embellishes 
common  times,  there  is  no  danger  of  times  of  sorrow 
wanting  them.  The  reasoner  resumed,  keeping  the  title 
now  that  he  had  got  it. 

"  The's  a  path  from  Skipper  George's  right  acrost  these 
two  roads,  (that  is,  ye  call  'em  roads  'n  this  country)  wall, 
I  guess  she  kep'  the  path  til  she  got  to  these  two  roads, 
('f  ye  call  'em  so,)  f 'r  't's  plaguey  hard  makin  tracks  out 
side  of  a  road,  here — (fact,  'tain't  al'a's  the  easiest  trav- 


A  NEW  MAN.  139 

ellin'  in  'em,  b't  that's  'nother  question,) — she  kep'  the 
path  t'l  she  got  t'  these  two  roads,  an'  then  question  is, 
which  way  ?  She'd  take  some  way  certin.  I  guess  ye'll 
think  we  might  's  well  try  t'  hear  'em  'lectioneerin'  'r 
talkin'  politics  'n  the  moon,  's  try  t'  guess  what  was  in  her 
mind ;  but  look  a'  here,  now ;  s'posin'  she'd  heard  o'  the 
old  gentleman's  goin  down  t'  Bay  Harbor ;  she  might 
want  to  go  after  him ;  but  then,  here's  this  story  o'  Jesse 
Hill — 'f  that's  his  name.  He  saw  her,  accordin'  to  his 
story,  (f  r,  I  take  it,  th'r'  ain't  'ny  reas'nable  doubt  b't 
'twas  the  gal  he  saw,)  where  she  must  ha'  ben  on  t'other 
path.  Now  I  understand  gals  sometimes  take  a  notion  t' 
care  f  r  other  folks  b'sides  their  fathers ;  't  seems  to  ha' 
ben  the  way  with  'em,  by  all  accounts — f 'm  Grandm'ther 
Eve,  's  fur  's  I  know.  I  don't  say  how  'twas  in  this  case, 
but  she  must  ha'  ben  a  takin'  piece  herself,  b'  all  accounts 
— an'  then,  if  the'  was  a  k'nd  'f  a  runnin'  idea  'f  someb'dy 
'n  her  mind,  why,  somehow  'r  other,  she'd  be  very  apt  to 
folia  that  idea.  She  didn't  show  any  sensitive  feelins, 
did  she  ?  " 

"  I  don'  rightly  understand  'ee,  sir,"  said  the  father,  "  I 
ben't  a  larn'd  man  'ee  know." 

"  Sh'  didn't  feel  'ny  tender  'motions,  I  s'pose  ?  That 
is,  she  hadn't  taken  a  notion  to  one  more'n  another? — 
young  man  I  mean,  livin'  somew'e's  round  ?  " 

The  father  answered  gravely,  but  with  the  same  hearty 
readiness  as  before — 

"  I  know  a  father  can't,  mubbe,  feel  proper  sure,  al- 
w'ys — to  say  sure — of  his  darter's  heart ;  but  so  fur  as  a 
man  can  be  sartain,  I'm  sarten  sure  my  Lucy  would 
never  have  agrowed  to  e'er  a  body,  knowunly,  athout  my 
knowun  it,  as  well.  There  was  a  neighbor's  son,  surely 
— that's  young  Mr.  Urston  we  spoke  about — mubbe  there 


140  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

might  have  somethun*  come  out  o'  that ;  but  they'm  Ro 
mans,  and  my  poor,  dear  maid  loved  her  Savior  too  much 
to  hear  to  e'er  a  Roman.  She'll  folly  her  own  church, 
thank  God,  while  she's  livin',  or  ef  she's  dead,  as  is  most 
like,  she'll  never  change  now,  to  ought  else,  only  better 
an'  more." 

"  No  more  she  woul',  Skipper  George ;  that's  a  clear 
case,"  said  Zebedee  Marchant. 

"  Wall,  on'y  jest  started  proposition ;  'hope  's  no  harm 
done.  Ye  think  the'  wa'n't  forbid  to  keep  company  ;  do 
ye  ?  Wall ;  on'y  'f  'twas  my  gall,  (but  the'  ain't  'ny  Miss 
Bangs,  yet,  I  guess, — but  if  'twas, — )  should  be  willin'  t' 
bet  a  fourp'ns  hap'ny — ('t's  a  coin  ye  hain't  got  't's  equal 
to, — wall,  't's  a  small  sum  o'  money,  b't  if  bettin's  t'  settle 
it,  should  be  willin'  to  bet) — they  know  som'th'n  'bout  her 
'11  that  family.  Ruther  think  the  folks  'n  that  house, — 
(called  in  there,  a  minit,  an'  as'd  f  r  a  drink  o'  water, 
seein'  the'  was  a  light  burnin ;  didn't  see  anythin  out  o' 
th'  way,  p'tic'lar,  but,) — ruther  guess,  'f  they  were  put  to't, 
they've  seen  or  heard  of  her,  one  o'  th'  two.  Ye  see, 
there's  that  punt,  's  ye  call  it,  't  the  cap'n  the  brig,  there, 
saw  'th  th'  nuns,  or  what  not,  in't ;  (fact,  I  saw  'em  m'self, 
— that  is,  I  saw  one  great  black  one,  V  a  couple  'f  other 
women," — here  there  was  great  sensation  among  the 
hearers, — "  w'n  I's  peekin'  round  the  house,  to  see  what's 
goin  on ;)  should  like,  pleggily,  to  know  what  the  nuns 
were  up  to,  'th  their  punt,  an*  what  'twas  they  kerned 

down Wall,  'f  those  folks  do  know,  it's  pleggy  strange 

though !  Wh',  anybody  't  had  got  the  feelin's  'f  a  man,  'd 
go  on  his  hands  'n  knees  round  all  outdoors — wall,  he'd  go 
a  pooty  long  chalk,  any  way — f  r  a  neighb'r  'n  distress." 

"Young  Mr.  Urston  's  a  good  lad,"  said  the  father; 
"  an'  the  family  ain't  a  bad  family,  ef  they  be  Romans." 


A  NEW  MAN.  141 

"  Wall,  I've  said  'bout  all  I've  got  t'  say,  p'ty  much. 
Ye're  welcome  to  it  f '  what  't's  worth.  'Find  th'  ain't 
goin'  to  be  much  to  do,  'n  the  way  o'  business,  t'll  they 
come  back  f 'm  Labrador,  'thout  I  take  to  lecturin'  a  spell, 
— (got  'n  exhibition  o'  dissolvin'  views ;  used  to  charge 
one  an'  six,  Yankee  money ;  m't  make  it  a  shillin',  cur 
rency,  here ;  but) — 'f  the's  any  thin'  goin'  on,  while  I've 
got  spare  time,  here's  one  man  ready." 

"  Thank'ee,  kindly,  sir,"  said  Skipper  George.  "  I'm 
sure,  it's  very  good  of  'ee  to  take  so  much  consarn  wi' 
strangers." 

"  Wall,  'don't  feel's  though  folks  ware  strangers,  when 
they're  in  trouble.  B't  't's  'bout  time  f '  me  to  be  trav'llin', 
I  guess,"  concluded  Mr.  Bangs,  who  had  taken  up  his 
hat,  and  made  a  start  out  of  the  way  of  thanks.  "  Do'no 
'xac'ly  customs  here,  ye  know ; — 1'k  a  fish  out  o'  water, 
ye  may  say.  Make  my  compliments  t'  th'  Parson,  's  ye 
call  him,  'f  't's  ruleable,  'n'  tell  him  'promised  t'  put  up 
'th  s'm  folks  'long  down  the  harbor.  Wish  ye  good-night, 
all!" 

So  saying, — the  gathering  of  neighbors  in  the  room 
opening  and  letting  him  through, — he  went  out  into  the 
open  air  and  the  morning  twilight,  and  walked  away  with 
short,  quick  steps,  swinging  one  arm. 

"  Well ! "  said  the  constable,  releasing  his  long  attention 
in  a  deep  breath,  "  there's  a  fellow  that'll  git  under  way 
without  waitun  for  tide  to  float  un  off,  any  how ; "  and, 
with  this  remark,  the  constable,  also,  went  hastily  forth. 


142  THE  NEW  PKIEST. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

TRACES    OF   THE    LOST. 

|ITHIN  the  half  hour  that  he  had  mentioned, 
the  Minister  had  got  back  from  his  own  house, 
and  the  constable  joined  him  near  Skipper 
George's  door.  It  was  a  dull,  dreary-looking  hour  of 
day,  so  thick  that  the  Minister  and  his  companion  soon 
hid  themselves  "  multo  nebulae  circum  amictu."  * 

"  Jesse  Barbury  will  join  us  presently,"  said  the  Minis 
ter,  as  they  crossed  the  ridge.  "  I  want  to  follow  out  his 
story,  if  nothing  comes  of  it,  even.  We'll  keep  down  the 
path,  and  he  can't  miss  us,  though  the  light  is  long  com 
ing,  this  cloudy  morning.  We  can  wait  a  little  for  him  at 
the  rock,  there.  I  should  like  to  hear  something  more 
about  her  sickness." 

The  earth  and  its  growth  were  wet,  and  hung  with 
drops,  but  it  was  not  raining  now.  The  early  morning 
air  was  chilly  and  thick,  and  nothing  at  a  little  distance 
could  be  seen.  While  Gilpin  was  telh'ng  the  story  of  the 
maiden's  fever,  of  which  the  reader  knows  more  than  the 
constable  told,  the  light  of  day  gradually  spread  itself;  at 
first  exposing  the  mist,  and  afterwards  driving  it  away. 

*  Mn.  I. 


TRACES   OF  THE  LOST.  143 

In  the  little  time  that  they  were  standing,  a  short,  sharp 
fall  of  rain  came  down  upon  them,  and  then  the  clouds 
began  to  break.  The  light  fast  opened  the  whole  land 
scape  of  the  neighborhood  in  which  the  sad  and  mysteri 
ous  event  had  taken  place. 

"  It's  clearing  off  finely,"  said  the  Minister,  with  a  hope 
ful  tone  of  augury. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  constable,  with  little  sound  of  the 
same  feeling  in  his  answer. 

"That's  a  queer  chap,  that  Yankee  that  was  in  the 
kitchen,  sir,"  he  resumed,  after  a  pause ;  "  and  he's  got 
some  pretty  'cute  notions,  too.  He  says  she's  gone  off  to 
the  Urstons'  house  in  a  fit  o'  craziness.  You  know  it's 
said,  sir,  there  was  something  between  the  young  people ; 
however  he  found  it  out." 

"  Most  likely  she  has  gone  out  in  one  of  those  fits," 
said  Mr.  Wellon ;  "  but  Jesse  Hill's  the  point  that  we're 
to  begin  at,  I  think ;  I've  sent  for  Jesse ." 

"  And  there  he's  coming  now,  sir,  over  the  gool'-bushes 
yonder.  I  see  his  great  fur  cap,  and  his  great  red  whis 
kers  under  it,  like  a  forge-fire." 

"  We'll  find  out  about  this  sight  of  his  first,  if  we  can," 
said  the  Minister.  "  By  the  way,  we  forgot  to  take  the 
dog !  "  added  he,  suddenly. 

"No,  sir,  he  came  along.  There  he  is,  sir,  nosing 
about  yonder.  We've  had  a  dozen  of  'em  out,  and  he 
too  ; — Susan  brought  un." 

"  We'll  give  him  another  chance  to-day,"  said  his  mas 
ter;  "but  this  rain  isn't  much  in  his  favor,  or  ours 
either." 

"  Jesse  Barbury,  or  Jesse  Hill,  came  up,  conspicuous 
for  red  whiskers  and  freckles,  but  looking  honestly  sad. 
"  Sarvant,  sir ! "  he  said  to  the  Minister,  lifting  his  hat ; 


144  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

and  in  a  lower  and  more  familiar  voice  to  the  constable, 
"  Hope  'ee're  hearty,  Mister  Gulpin." 

"We're  going  down  the  Backside,  Jesse.  Will  you 
go  along  and  see  if  we  can  make  out  whereabouts  that 
white  thing  was  when  you  saw  it  ?  " 

"  Sartin,  sir,"  said  Jesse  Hill,  falling  into  the  rear  while 
they  took  the  path  through  the  bushes,  as  a  boat  in  tow 
might  fall  astern. 

As  they  were  far  enough  over  to  have  the  land  going 
right  down  between  them  and  the  shore,  the  Minister, 
keeping  his  eyes  toward  the  water,  inquired  of  Jesse 
whereabouts  his  punt  had  been  the  evening  before  at  the 
time  of  the  vision. 

"  Sir ! "  said  Jesse,  emphatically,  by  way  of  exclama 
tion,  not  question,  and  evidently  glad  to  be  opened,  "  ef 
'ee  plase  to  bring  yon  var  (fir)  on  wi'  the  road  at  tother 
side,  sir,  up  over,  we  was  about  a  fourth  part  o'  the  w'y 
acrost,  sir  ;  and  Izik  MafFen,  that  was  along " 

"  And  where  was  the  figure  when  you  first  saw  it  ? " 
asked  the  Minister,  cutting  gently  off  the  tail  of  Jesse 
Hill's  discourse. 

"  It  corned  right  out  of  a  big  bush,  seemunly,  sir, — to 
my  seemun,  sir,  and  Izik  Maffen -." 

"  Would  you  know  the  bush  if  you  could  see  it  ?  " 

"  Mubbe  I  mought,  sir.  I  can'  be  rightly  sure,  sir — 
to  say  sure,  sir." 

"  What  color  was  it,  Jesse  ?  Was  it  yellow,  or  red  ?  " 
asked  the  constable. 

"  Wull,  Mr.  Gulpin,  it  was  dark  lookun ;  I  couldn'  say 
gezacly,  but  'twas  dark-lookun ;  and  Iz ." 

"  That's  pretty  well,  Jesse  ;  you  kept  all  the  wits  you 
had  about  you,  if  you  did  get  frightened.  Can  you  see 
it  from  here  ?  " 


TRACES   OF  THE  LOST.  145 

The  fisherman  surveyed  the  whole  surrounding  scenery 
with  an  eye  that  from  infancy,  almost,  had  learned  to  note 
landmarks  ;  and  here  were  plenty  of  bushes  to  choose 
from, — a  wilderness  of  them, — but  he  recognized  none. 
Here  and  there,  at  a  distance,  were  still  scattered  a  few 
persons  who  seemed  to  be  searching. 

"  Ef  I  was  down  at  tother  side  o'  they  bushes,"  he 
began. 

"  Surely,  Jesse,  that's  only  reasonable ;  you're  a  better 
sailor  than  I  be." 

"  Ay,  Jesse,"  said  the  Minister,  who  had  been  looking 
with  eager  but  sad  eyes  over  the  waste  ;  "  get  down 
somewhere  where  you  can  see  it  as  you  saw  it  before. 
That's  Mister  Urston's  house  over  there  ?  " 

"  Is,  sure,  sir  ;  that's  'e's  house,  sir,"  answered  Jesse. 

"  There's  that  new  Popish  priest,  talking  with  Skipper- 
George  ! "  said  Gilpin ;  and  as  the  Minister  turned,  he 
saw  the  companion  of  his  walk  of  a  few  days  before, 
standing  uncovered,  (perhaps  out  of  respect  to  the  bare 
head  of  the  sorrowing  father,)  and  so  engaged  as  not  to 
see  Mr.  Wellon  and  his  party. 

"  Yes,  that  was  he  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Wellon. 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  that's  just  their  way  of  going  on,"  said 
the  constable.  » 

"  He  won't  lead  George  Barbury  astray,"  said  the 
Minister,  giving  a  long  look,  however,  in  that  direction. 

"  'Deed,  'e  wou'n't,  then,"  said  Jesse  Hill ;  and  the 
party  again  set  forward,  Mr.  Wellon  last. 

"  Thisam's  the  path  from  Uncle  Georgie's  w'y,"  said 
Jesse,  as  they  struck  it.  Having  gone  down  some  dis 
tance  upon  it,  Jesse  said  : — 

"  Woul'  'ee  be  so  well  plased  as  bide  here  a  spurt,  sir  ? 
an'  I'll  come  back  to  'ee,  in  short." 

VOL.   I.  10 


146  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

Behind  them,  just  at  a  turn  of  the  way,  was  a  large 
bush.  Jesse  walked  down  the  path,  noting  the  bearings 
on  each  side,  and  turning  round  once,  he  soon  came  to 
a  stand. 

"  Plase  to  fall  astarn  a  bit,  Mr.  Gulpin,"  he  called  out ; 
and  the  constable-smith  did  as  directed. 

Suddenly  they  were  all  startled  by  the  running  of  one 
of  the  distant  parties  towards  them.  The  dog  gave  a 
short  bark.  "  There's  Izik,  now,  sir  ! "  said  Jessie,  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  from  where  he  stood. 

"  Have  you  found  any  signs  of  her  ?  "  asked  Mr.  "Wel- 
lon,  as  the  new  party  drew  near.  Their  answer  destroyed 
all  hope  from  that  source ;  they  had  only  come  to  offer  to 
help  the  Parson,  "  seeing  he  seemed  to  be  sarchin',  like." 

"  Well,  Jesse  ! "  said  the  constable. 

.    "  Avast,  a  bit !  "  was  Jesse's  answer.     "  So ! "  and  he 
came  back'  again. 

"  Thisam's  the  bush,  sir,"  said  he.  Ef  'ee'll  plase  to 
look,  just  as  Mr.  Gulpin's  a  comun  out  from  behind  un, 
sir,  jesso  what  I  sid  corned  out,  an'  goed  right  down  here, 
didn't 'em,  Izik?" 

The  substance,  who  had  come  to  represent  the  name 
that  had  hitherto  been  so  frequent  on  Jessie's  tongue,  was 
a  gaunt,  hard-featured  jjellow,  and  why  Jesse  should  have 
been  his  leader  and  principal,  (unless  because  he  was  not 
quite  as  ugly,  or  was,  perhaps,  better  off,)  was  hard  to  say. 

The  bush  stood  in  such  a  way  at  the  turning  of  the 
path,  that  a  short  man  or  a  woman  might,  on  the  other 
side,  have  been  hidden  for  a  little  distance  ;  the  ground 
being  for  a  few  rods  hollow,  and  then  ascending  again. 

Izik  Maffen,  appealed  to,  looked   dutifully  at   Jesse 
Hill  from  under  his  woollen  cap,*  and  made  his  answer : — 
*  or  Paisley  bonnet. 


TRACES   OF   THE  LOST.  147 

"  I's  sure  'e  did,  then,  Jesse." 

"We  can  come  back  this  way;  let  us  go  down  to 
where  she  disappeared,  if  we  can  find  it,"  said  the  Min 
ister. 

"  Do  'ee  think  has  the  Pareson  got  track  o'  she  ?  "  said 
one  of  the  new  followers,  aside, — a  silent,  quiet  man,  who 
generally  kept  himself  back. 

The  sun,  rising,  as  he  was,  had  found  a  place  between 
the  clouds  to  look  out  through  upon  the  earth,  and  upon 
the  sad  search  that  these  few  men  were  making,  without 
a  trace  to  guide  them,  and  where  all  had  been  already 
searched.  The  sea  shone  before  him,  and  myriads  of 
rain-drops  glistened  on  all  sides ;  the  green  was  fairer 
and  brighter  everywhere  than  usual ;  but  if  there  could 
have  been  any  possibility  of  tracing,  at  any  time,  foot 
prints  on  the  rough  and  gravelly  path  that  they  were  fol 
lowing,  this  rain  had  washed  all  slight  prints,  of  whatever 
kind,  away,  had  made  its  own  marks,  heaped  up  its  little 
black  gatherings  of  mould  from  the  bushes  on  the  white 
earth,  and  filled  all  lesser  hollows  with  water. 

"  Did  it  go  all  the  way  down  here,  Jesse  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Wellon. 

"  'Is,  sir,"  answered  Jesse  Hill ;  "  sometimes  we  sid  it, 
an'  more  times  agin  we  didn'  see  it ;  but  it  goed  like  a 
white  sail,  in  a  manner,  sir,  passin'  by  the  green  bushes  ; 
it  didn'  walk,  seemunly,  to  my  seemun ;  and  Izik  Maffen, 
that  was  along  wi'  I, ." 

"  Where  did  you  see  the  last  of  it  ?  " 

"  Down  a  bit,  sir,  by  the  house." 

Mr.  Urston's  house  stood  along  by  the  bank  or  cliff, 
and  for  some  little  distance  round  it  the  bushes  were 
cleared  off.  The  garden,  inclosed  with  its  "  pickets," 
stretched  before  it,  towards  the  land,  (or  behind  it,  if  the 


148  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

other  side  towards  the  water  were  counted  front,)  a 
dozen  rods,  perhaps;  the  house  itself  was  uninclosed, 
and,  in  our  country  style,  a  comfortable  looking  dwelling, 
and  in  good  keeping-up.  Some  firs  and  other  growth, 
which  had  got  far  enough  up  the  precipice  to  stand  a 
little  above  its  edge,  would  have  prevented  any  person 
very  near  the  house  from  being  seen  from  the  place  in 
which  Jesse  Hill  and  his  comrade  had  been  on  the 
water. 

The  dogs  of  Newfoundland  are  not  unlike  the  dogs  of 
other  countries  in  their  dealings  with  one  another ;  and 
the  intrusion  or  near  approach  of  a  stranger  is  a  thing 
about  which  the  dog  at  home  gets  to  his  feet,  and  puts  up 
his  tail,  and  bristles  his  mane,  and  shows  his  teeth. 

As  the  Minister  and  his  *  following '  drew  towards  the 
house,  great  care  was  taken  to  prevent  a  fight  between 
his  dog  and  a  large  brindled  fellow  that  lay  growling  on 
the  flat  stone  before  Mr.  Urston's  door ;  and  the  fight 
was  prevented ;  the  proper  occupant  of  the  place  being 
left  undisturbed  to  his  occupation,  a*id  the  other  being 
marched  off,  with  the  tramp  of  many  shod  feet,  and  ex 
hortations  from  several  voices  mingled  with  his  own, 
toward  the  cliff  or  steep  bank  (for  the  shore  was  in  one 
place  one,  and  in  another  place  the  other)  at  the  water 
side. 

A  wild  and  picturesque  chasm,  called  the  "  Worrell," 
was  broken  out  of  the  rock  near  the  house,  approached 
on  the  eastern  side  by  a  slope  of  the  land  which  was  con 
tinued  in  a  ledge  down  the  face  of  the  landward  wall,  to 
some  broken  masses  of  rock  at  the  bottom.  A  bit  of 
gray  beach  lay  among  and  beside  these  rocks  ;  and  while 
the  water  came  freely  in,  and  was  sheltered  entirely  on 
three  sides,  there  was  also  a  jutting  out  of  one  of  the 


TRACES   OF  THE  LOST.  349 

rocky  walls  in  such  a  way  as  to  throw  a  barrier  half 
across  the  opening,  and  to  form  a  little  safe  cove  with  a 
sand  bottom,  entirely  defended  by  cliffs.  Here  Mr.  Urs- 
ton  kept  several  punts,  and  others  resorted  to  the  spot 
for  a  convenient  landing-place.  Small  trees  had  got  a 
foothold  here  and  there  on  the  broken  walls  of  this  hole 
in  the  shore;  and  near  the  top,  where  soil  had  been 
washed  over,  bushes  were  growing. 

The  fishermen  looked  to  the  Minister  as  he  scanned 
carefully  all  sides,  and  the  rocks  and  beach  at  the  bot 
tom  ;  and  they  also  examined  with  their  eyes  the  neigh 
boring  ground,  and  in  a  low  voice  carried  on  their  spec 
ulations  with  each  other. 

"  How  long  did  you  stay  where  you  were  after  the 
white  thing  had  disappeared  ?  "  he  asked,  turning  round 
to  Jesse,  who,  with  Isaac  close  at  hand,  was  waiting  to  be 
called  upon  again. 

"Well  now,  I  couldn'  rightly  say,  Pareson  Wellon, 
how  long  it  was,  sir ;  not  to  say  gezac'ly,  sir ;  but  it  were 
a  short  spurt ;  for  Izik  says  to  I,  ses  he, ." 

The  actual  Isaac  seemed  not  to  have  supplanted  the 
historical  one,  whom  Jesse  had  so  frequently  introduced  ; 
but  Jesse  had  no  touch  of  any  thing  but  solemn  serious 
ness  in  his  way  of  telling  what  he  knew. 

"  Did  you  keep  on  looking,"  asked  the  Minister. 

"  'Is  sir,  'deed  we  did,  sir ;  we  kep'  lookin'  so  str'ight 
as  a  needle  pointin',  in  a  manner,  sir ; — but  we  never  sid 
nothin'  after  that, — no  more,  sir." 

"  No  more  we  didn',  sure  enough,"  affirmed  his  faithful 
Isaac,  solemnly. 

"  I  can  tell  'ee  now,  sir,"  said  Jesse,  who  had  recol 
lected  himself;  "we'd  jest  asid  a  punt  comin'  round 
Castle-Bay  Point,  when  we  first  cotch  sight  o'  thisam' 


150  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

white  thing.  Quick  as  ever  I  sid  the  punt,  I  ses  to 
Izik,  I  says— 

"And  when  you  came  away,  where  was  the  punt, 
Jesse  ?  " 

"When  we  corned  aw'y,  sir,  they  was  about  a  half 
w'ys  up  to  we  sir,  wi'  oars  an'  wind,  doin'  their  best ;  an' 
I  sid  it  was  Naathan " 

"  How  long  would  that  take  them  ?  " 

"  Could  n'  'ave  abin  less  than  five  minutes,  sir  ;  that's 
a  sure  case." 

Isaac  was  appealed  to  by  a  look  of  the  speaker,  and 
affirmed  the  statement. 

"  That's  a  sure  case,  Jesse,"  said  he. 

"  And  you  watched,  all  that  time  ?  " 

"  'Is,  sir,  we  did,  sir ;  an'  a  long  time  arter  that ;  so 
long  as  ever  we  could  see  the  place,  while  we  was  rowing 
aw'y." 

"Was  it  getting  dark?" 

"  No,  Pareson,  it  wasn'  gettun  dark  ;  the  sun  had  jest 
aknocked  off.  It  mought  be  a'  twilight,  sir.  We  was 
jes  comun  home,  however,  sir,  an'  I  ses " 

A  sudden  noisy  altercation  of  the  dogs  diverted  for  the 
moment  all  attention  toward  the  house.  Mr.  Urston's 
"  Ducker  "  had  come  out  to  the  path,  and  it  had  needed 
but  a  moment  to  embroil  him  with  the  stranger. 

"  Mr.  Gilpin  !  "  exclaimed  the  Minister,  at  this  alarm. 

"  'E  isn'  'ere,  sir,"  answered  one  of  the  company ;  but  at 
the  moment  the  constable  appeared  at  the  corner  of  the 
house,  and  set  himself,  understandingly,  to  the  work  of 
keeping  the  noisy  debaters  asunder. 

Immediately  behind  appeared  a  woman  of  about  sixty 
years,  announced  among  Mr.  Wellon's  company  as '  Granny 
Calloran ' !  whom  we  have  called  young  Urston's  nurse. 


TEACES   OF  THE  LOST.  151 

She  was  one  of  those  women  in  whom  the  process  of  dry 
ing  away  with'  age  seems  to  leave  the  essence  of  will  and 
energy,  concentrated,  after  the  manner  of  a  chemical 
evaporation.  Her  features,  too,  had  that  expression  of 
standing  out,  that  befits  such  a  character. 

Without  noticing  Gilpin,  who  had  the  Minister's  dog  by 
the  collar,  she  set  herself  directly  in  front  of  the  other, 
putting  her  apron  over  his  face.  At  the  same  time,  with 
a  brisk  blow  of  the  foot,  she  sent  what  had,  very  likely, 
been  the  object  of  contention  into  the  open  hole  of  the 
dog's  kennel,  under  the  corner  of  the  house,  near  which 
Gilpin  stood.  The  constable,  as  suddenly  snatched  it 
out, 

"  It's  a  bad  ould  book,  that's  afther  bein'  burnt,"  said 
Mrs.  Calloran,  who  saw  the  motion,  holding  out  her  hand 
for  the  blackened  and  shrivelled  mass,  which  had  been, 
moreover,  disfigured  by  the  teeth  of  the  dog. 

"  Jesse,  lay  hold  o'  the  dog,  a  bit,  will  'ee  ?  "  said  Gil- 
pin,  as  the  men  drew  up ;  and  four  hands  were  imme 
diately  laid  upon  Eppy,  and  a  fur  cap  and  a  woollen  bonnet 
met  together  in  the  operation. 

"  It's  got  pretty  good  stuff  in  it,  for  a  bad  book,"  pro 
ceeded  the  constable,  as  he  carefully  disengaged  some  of 
the  leaves  from  their  sticking  together.  "  Here's  prayers, 
for  one  thing." 

"  Ah !  thin,  it's  me  darter's  prayer-book  she  was 
lookin'  for,  this  while  back,  an'  niver  got  a  sight  of  it, 
good  or  bad,"  said  Mrs.  Calloran  ;  "  an'  I'm  thankful  to 
ye  for  findin'  it  this  day." 

She  again  held  out  her  hand  for  it ;  but  the  finder 
seemed  in  no  hurry  to  part  with  it. 

"  You  may  thank  the  dogs  for  that,"  said  he,  continu 
ing  his  examination ;  "  it's  an  English  Prayer-Book,  any 


152  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

how.  The  one  it  belonged  to  isn't  very  near  to  you,  I 
don't  think." 

"  An',  sure,  isn't  all  our  prayer-books  English  ?  D'ye 
think,  do  we  pray  in  Hebrew- Greek  ? "  retorted  Mrs. 
Calloran,  getting  warm ;  "  ar  what  ?  " 

She  attempted  to  recover  the  book  by  a  sudden  snatch, 
and  set  the  dog  free  by  the  same  movement.  The  one- 
eyed  constable  was  too  quick  for  her ;  but  the  dog  mut 
tered,  mischievously. 

At  this  moment,  the  sound  of  horse-hoofs  upon  the 
stony  ground  made  itself  heard,  even  among  men  whose 
attention  was  occupied  as  was  that  of  Gilpin  and  his  com 
panions. 

"There's  another  of  'em!"  muttered  the  constable, 
aside. — "  That's  Father  Nicholas,  they  calls  un. — There's 
rather  too  many  of  those  gents  for  my  likin',"  he  con 
tinued,  in  his  aside,  "  'tisn't  eight  o'clock,  yet ;  two  of  'em, 
in  two  or  three  hours,  don't  mean  any  good,  I'll  go  bail." 

The  horseman  was  coming,  at  a  good  quick  trot,  along 
the  path  near  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  from  the  direction  of 
Castle-Bay. 

Mrs.  Calloran,  as  if  aware,  by  sight  or  hearing,  of 
this  powerful  reinforcement  close  at  hand,  (informed,  per 
haps,  by  Gilpin's  remarks,)  renewed  her  strength  ;  and 
her  face  gleamed  with  satisfaction,  even  in  the  midst  of 
its  looks  of  vexation.  She  secured  the  dog,  however. 

While  this  animal  was  working  himself  up  to  a  rage, 
and  the  other,  also,  who  was  in  charge  of  the  fishermen, 
answered  growl  for  growl,  young  Mr.  Urston  appeared, 
and  changed  the  state  of  things.  With  his  voice  and  his 
foot,  he  speedily  persuaded  Ducker  to  go  inside  of  the 
house,  and  leave  the  field  to  other  arbitrators. 

"  I'll  talk  with  Mr.  Gilpin,  Granny,"  said  he. 


TRACES   OF   THE   LOST.  153 

«An'  can't  I  do  that,  meself?"  asked  she.  "Well, 
thin,  Mr.  Galpin,  (an'  Mr.  Galpin  I  believe  it  is,  indeed,) 
let's  have  no  words  upon  it  (an'  yerself  a  man  that's  set 
over  the  peace)  ;  but  will  ye  give  me  the  book,  quite  an' 
paceable,  that  ye  tuk  from  this  house?  an'  meself  '11 
lave  ye  to  yer  company :  an'  there's  enough  o'  thim  that 
ye  wouldn't  feel  lonely,  walkin'  away  from  this,  I'm 
thinkin'." 

"  If  Mr.  Urston  will  look  here  a  minute,  (I  suppose  he 
won't  be  afraid  of  a  Protestant  book,)  I'll  show  him,  in  a 
jiffey,"  answered  the  constable.  "  There  !  "  said  he,  as 
the  young  man  followed  his  invitation.  "  I'm  sure  if  that 
isn't  Church,  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  isn't  Church. 
'  Articles  agreed  upon  by  the  Archbishops  and  Bishops  of 
both  Provinces,  and  the  whole  Clergy : ' — and  there's 
*  Articles  of  the  Church  of  England.'  Does  that  book 
belong  here  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  James  Urston,  "  it's  not  your  book, 
Granny,  and  it  does  not  belong  to  any  one  here." 

"There  seems  to  be  some  little  misunderstanding 
between  you  and  your  excellent  neighbors,"  said  a  new 
voice,  very  blandly  ;  and  the  priest,  whom  Gilpin  had 
called  Father  Nicholas,  appeared,  on  foot,  near  the  house. 
He  was  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  of  an  appearance 
that  would  strike  even  a  rude  man,  at  first  glance.  His 
eyes  were  deep-set  and  dark,  with  a  high  forehead,  firm, 
sharp  lips,  and  a  complexion  like  slightly-yellowed  ivory, 
contrasting  strongly  with  his  black  hair.  There  was  a 
settled  look  of  authority  about  him  ;  and  he  had  the 
reputation  of  being  one  whose  influence  was  not  less  that 
of  a  man  of  superior  mind,  than  one  who  bore  a  sacred 
office.  Almost  less  was  popularly  known  or  reported 
about  this  gentleman's  history,  than  about  that  of  the 


154  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

new  priest  who  had  come  to  Peterport ;  although  Father 
Nicholas  had  been  two  years  and  more  in  the  neighbor 
hood, — and  the  other,  two  weeks. 

His  appearance  disconcerted  and  drove  into  temporary 
retreat  behind  the  picket-fence  one  of  the  Peterport  Pro 
testants,  (the  silent  and  withdrawing  man,)  rather  abashed 
Jesse  and  Isaac,  who  were  holding  the  dog,  and  even 
slightly  startled  Mister  Charles  Gilpin,  smith  and  consta 
ble  ;  but  men's  minds  were  serious  and  saddened,  and  not 
likely  to  yield  to  passing  emotions  ; — Gilpin's  blood  was 
warmed,  and  that  of  his  followers  was  ready  to  back 
him  ;  and  so,  with  the  second  breath,  religious  antipathy 
gave  them  a  very  determined  manner,  and  the  eye  of 
their  leader  took  a  new  brightness.  The  Minister,  before 
the  altercation  began,  had  gone  down  into  the  Worrell, 
(the  chasm  before-described,)  and  had  not  come  up. 

The  priest  having  given  the  different  parties  time  to 
compose  themselves,  spoke  again : — 

"  Perhaps  your  neighbors  will  excuse  you  for  coming 
in  with  me,  now,  as  my  business  is  important,  and  my  time 
valuable.  James,  will  you  do  me  the  favor  to  come  in  ?  " 

"  We're  about  pretty  solemn  business,  too,  sir,"  said  the 
constable.  "  Before  I  go,  I've  got  a  word  to  say :  I'm 
not  going  off  as  if  I'd  been  robbing  a  hen-roost.  I  beg 
you  to  look,  sir, — Jesse,  and  the  rest  of  you,  you  see :  this 
bit  of  a  burnt  book,  I  mean  to  carry  with  me." 

"  It'll  be  rather  dainty  reading,"  said  the  priest,  with  a 
smile,  as  he  turned  to  go  into  the  house. 

"  I  can  make  something  out  of  it,  plain  enough,"  said 
the  constable. 

Mrs.  Calloran  here  said  something,  aside,  to  Father 
Nicholas,  who  again  addressed  Gilpin : — 

"If  you'll  let  me  speak,  as  a  disinterested  party,  I 


TRACES    OF   THE   LOST.  155 

would  only  say,  that  I  understand  that  book  belonged  to 
a  near  relation  of  Mrs.  Calloran's,  for  whose  sake  she 
values  it." 

The  constable,  in  a  low  voice,  commented  upon  this 
suggestion  as  follows : — 

"  She's  took  good  care  over  it ;  and  she's  tried  it,  like 
pure  gold,  seven  times  in  the  fire.  She  forgot  one  com 
mandment,  about  giving  holy  things  to  dogs.  When  I 
came  here,  the  dog  was  gnawing  at  it." 

"  'M ! "  said  Jesse  Hill  and  Isaac  Maffen,  emphati 
cally. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  priest,  as  blandly  as  before. 
"  I'm  told  this  is  the  constable  :  he  knows  the  law,  no 
doubt ;  and  he  knows  the  difference  between  *  robbing  a 
hen-roost,'  as  he  says,  and  taking  a  book  that  doesn't 
belong  to  him." 

"  I  think,  sir,"  answered  Gilpin,  I'm  rather  nearer  to 
this  book,  or  what's  left  of  it,  than  Mrs.  Calloran  is. 
It's  what  you  call  a  heretical  book,  to  begin  with ;  and 
that  don't  look  like  her  caring  much  about  un  ;  and, 
what's  more,  he  belonged  to  a  friend  o'  mine,  and  if  Mrs. 
Calloran  wants  to  claim  un,  she  knows  where  to  come, 
and  if  she'll  prove  her  property,  she  shall  have  un.  It's 
worth  more  now  than  ever  it  cost." 

"There  must  be  some  mistake,  Mrs.  Calloran,"  said 
Father  Nicholas.  "You'd  best  drop  the  thing  where 
it  is." 

"  Lave  Skipper  Charlie  alone  for  talk,"  said  one  to  an 
other  of  the  constable's  followers,  naturally  feeling  not  a 
little  proud  at  his  force  of  tongue.  The  constable  him 
self  suddenly  took  another  subject. 

"  Mrs.  Calloran,"  said  he,  "  did  you  see  Mr.  Barbury'a 
daughter  since  yesterday  morning  ?  " 


156  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  Misther  Barbury's  darter !  an'  did  I  see  her  ?  Do 
ye  think  is  it  visitin'  her  I  was,  that  wasn't  in  it  or  nigh  it, 
those  many  years  !  How  would  I  be  seeun  Misther  Bar- 
bury's  darter  ?  There's  other  ould  women  in  Peterport, 
I'm  thinkin'." 

"Ay !  but  did  you  see  her  ?  "  repeated  the  constable, 
holding  on  like  a  mastiff. 

"An'  sure,"  answered  the  woman,  "  wouldn't  wan  an 
swer  do  ye  ?  An'  what  for  must  ye  be  afther  comun, 
that  has  no  call  to  it,  an'  the  father  himself  beun  here 
last  evenun  ?  " 

"  But  you  might  answer  a  plain  question,  and  a  short 
one,  with  a  plain,  short  answer,  I  think,"  persisted  the 
constable. 

"  Sure  is  this  the  place  to  come  askun  for  Lucy  Bar- 
bury  ?  An'  isn't  her  father's  house  the  fit  place  to  look 
for  her,  besides  axun  meself,  when  it's  sorrow  a  sight  I 
seen  of  her  in  years,  I  suppose  ?  What  would  I  do  wid 
Lucy  Barbury  ?  " 

"  I  can't  make  you  answer,  if  you  won't  answer  of  your 
own  accord ;  but  there's  some  that  can,"  said  the  con 
stable. 

"An'  didn't  ye  hear  me  sayun  I  didn't  know  if  I  seen 
her  in  years  ?  I  dono  did  I  or  no,"  answered  the  uncon 
querable  woman. 

"  But  that  isn't  answering  my  question  either ;  I  asked 
if  you'd  seen  her  since  yesterday  morning,"  persisted 
Skipper  Charlie. 

Young  Urston  seemed  rather  inclined  to  have  this  ex 
amination  go  on  than  to  interrupt  it.  The  Priest,  how 
ever,  mediated. 

"  Mrs.  Calloran  will  doubtless  be  willing  to  answer  any 
reasonable  question,"  said  he.  "  I  suppose  you  have  some 


TRACES    OF   THE   LOST.  157 

good  reason  for  asking.  You  wish  to  know  whether  she 
saw  this  young  person,  or  old  person,  whichever  it  is, 
yesterday  ?  Whether  she  got  some  message  from  her, 
perhaps  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Gilpin ;  "  Mr.  Barbury's  daughter's 
missing,  and  we  want  to  find  her,  or  find  out  what's  be 
come  of  her." 

"  Is  it  left  her  father's  house  ?  Sure  that's  not  a  very 
good  story  of  a  young  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Calloran,  mor 
alizing. 

"  Granny ! "  said  young  Urston,  sternly,  "  you'll  please 
not  to  speak  disrespectfully." 

"  If  it's  lost  she  is,  thin  may  God  find  her ! "  said  she, 
more  softly. 

"Of  course  it  will  be  cleared  up,"  said  the  Priest; 
"  there's  some  explanation  of  it ;  and  I  only  hope  it  will 
come  out  happily  for  all.  You  can  say  whether  you 
know  where  she  is,  or  any  thing  about  her,  Mrs.  Calloran, 
and  you  needn't  keep  your  neighbors  waiting." 

"  Sure  thin,  yer  riverence,  Father  Nicholas,"  said  Mrs. 
Calloran,  "  it's  not  meself  asked  thim  to  wait ;  but  if  it's 
where's  Lucy  Barbury,  indade  I  dono,  more  than  I  know 
where  the  injens  is." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Constable,  I  shall  be  glad  if  you're  satisfied^ 
as  I'm  pressed  for  time  ;  but  I  won't  hurry  you." 

"  I  haven't  got  any  thing  more  to  ask  just  now,  sir," 
said  the  constable. 

"  Then  I'll  wish  you  good  morning,"  said  the  priest, 
and  went  into  the  house,  followed  by  Mrs.  Calloran. 

Before  going  in  after  them  Mr.  Urston  said, — 

"  She  nursed  me  as  early  as  I  can  remember,  almost ; 
but  if  it  were  necessary  to  dig  down  my  father's  house  to 
find  a  trace,  I  say,  go  on  !  I'll  build  it  again." 


158  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

SEARCHING    STILL. 

S  the  constable  and  his  company  drew  near  the 
"  Worrell,"  whither  Epictetus,  the  Minister's  dog, 
had  gone  immediately  on  finding  himself  at 
large,  Mr.  Wellon  and  the  man  whom  he  had  taken  down 
with  him  were  coming  up. 

"Here's  something  that  may  have  been  her's,"  said 
the  Minister,  turning  to  his  companion,  who  held  up  a 
plain  white  cap,  which  all  crowded  about  and  looked 
upon,  in  sacred  silence. 

It  was  marked  with  red  thread,  already  faded,  "  L.  B." 

Jesse  had  uncovered  his  honest  red  locks  before  it, 
and  more  than  one  of  his  comrades  put  the  back  of  his 
hand  to  his  eyes. 

Presently  the  general  voice  said  sadly,  "  That's  Lucy's, 
and  no  mistake." 

"  It  was  part  of  that  figure  that  Jesse  and  Isaac  saw, 
I  think,"  said  the  Minister,  in  the  same  tone. 

"  Do  'ee  think  'twould  wear  a  real  cap,  sir  ?  "  asked 
Jesse,  who  doubtless  looked  upon  what  he  had  seen,  on 
the  evening  before,  as  a  preternatural  sight. 

"  I  think  it  was  her  real  self,"  answered  Mr.  Wellon, 
looking  wistfully  upon  the  path,  which  seemed  to  have 
been  the  path  of  death,  or  strange  disaster,  to  the  girl 


SEARCHING  STILL.  159 

who  had  so  lately  been  one  of  the  chief  joys  and  beauties 
of  the  place. 

"  Where  did  you  find  it,  sir  ? "  inquired  the  con 
stable. 

"At  the  bottom  of  the  Worrell,  on  the  sand  under 
one  of  the  punts  that  Zebedee  turned  over.  It  may  have 
floated  in  on  the  tide. — I  think  you  told  me  that  boats 
were  out  along  the  shore  here  and  round  the  point  ?  " 

"Ay,  sir,  Cap'n  Nolesworth  and  George  Kames,  you 
know,  his  mate,  were  round  Castle-Bay  harbor,  and  some 
are  down  now,  by  land,  to  Bay-Harbor,  and  to  Brigus  ; 
Jonathan  Frank  one  way,  and  Skipper  Henry  Ressle 
t'other  way.  Young  Urston,  here,  was  out  all  night  wi' 
a  lantern,  sculling  into  every  place  along  shore ;  but  there 
wasn't  a  scred  nor  a  scrap  to  be  found ;  and  Solomon 
Kelley  and  Naath  Marchant  were  out  till  morning ;  but  I 
think  now  we'll  get  some  track  of  her,  please  God,  dead 
or  alive." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Wellon,  "  if  she's  alive,  as  I 
hope,  we  must  hear  from  her ;  or  if  she's  lost  in  the 
water,  as  she  may  be,  we  may  hope  to  find  her  body. 
(God  help  us !)  We  must  get  word  to  every  place  that 
she  could  go  to." 

The  lifeless  relic  that  they  had  recovered,  heavy  and 
dripping  with  the  ocean  water,  while  it  brought  them 
near  to  her  in  one  respect,  yet  gave  deep  meaning  to  the 
suggestion  that  she  might  have  perished  in  the  sea  ;  and 
in  this  way  it  seemed  to  impress  them  all. 

"  If  I  can  get  a  crew,  by  and  by,  I'll  go  round  the 
shore,  and  give  one  look  by  daylight,"  said  the  Minister. 

"  Ef  'ee'll  plase  to  take  me  an'  Izik,"  said  Jesse  Hill, 
"  we'll  be  proud  to  go  along  wi'  'ee,  sir." 

"  '  Deed  we  woul',"  said  Isaac  Maffen. 


1GO  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  You've  been  out  a  good  deal  already,  though,"  said 
Mr.  Wellon. 

"  Well,  we  can  afford  a  little  time,  Pareson  Wellon," 
said  Jesse.  "  I  don'  know  who's  got  a  right,  ef  I  haven'/' 
and  Isaac  assented  :  "All  so,  Jesse." 

"An'  I'll  make  another,  if  'ee  plase,  sir,"  said  Zebedee 
Marchant. 

A  fourth  offered  immediately,  and  the  crew  was  com 
plete.  This  fourth  was  the  quiet  man  several  times  men 
tioned. 

"  We'm  got  somethun  to  be  doned  first,  afore  that,  I 
suppose,  sir,"  said  Jesse,  turning  gravely  round  toward 
the  wet  cap  which  Zebedee  Marchant  bore,  and  which,  at 
this  reference,  he  raised  in  silence. 

"  I  think  we'd  better  keep  that  until  we  come  back," 
said  Mr.  Wellon,  "  and  then  we  shall  have  something,  at 
least,  if  we  get  nothing  more.  Will  you  take  charge  of 
it?" 

"Whatever  'ee  says,  sir,"  said  Jesse  gravely;  "I'll 
take  'uh  ef  'ee  says  so,  sir ; "  and  so  saying,  the  honest 
fisherman,  Skipper  George's  nephew,  spread  a  great  blue 
handkerchief  upon  a  rock,  and  taking  the  cap  from  Zebe 
dee,  placed  it  in  the  handkerchief,  and  carefully  turning 
over  the  corners,  said  : — 

"  Thank  'ee  Zippity  ;  'e'll  be  safe  wi'  me  ;  so  'e  was  wi' 
you,  too."  He  then  carefully  held  it  with  both  hands. 

"  We'll  take  time  to  get  something  to  eat,  and  then  be 
off,  as  soon  as  we  can."  said  Mr.  Wellon. 

The  excited  state  of  Jesse  Barbury's  feelings  may  have 
given  readiness  and  directness  to  his  words,  for  he  said 
immediately,  addressing  his  pastor  : — 

"  Pareson,  would  'ee  be  so  well-plased  now,  mubbe, 
sir,  as  come  an'  take  a  poor  morsel  o'  tay  wi'  us,  ef  I 


SEARCHING   STILL.  jgl 

m'y  make  bold.  It's  poor  offerun'  sir,  I  knows  ;  but  my 
missus  'nil  be  clear  proud." 

Isaac  Maffen  enforced  the  invitation  in  his  fashion; 
saying,  in  a  moderated  voice,  "  'Deed  she  woul',  that's  a 
clear  case." 

Mr.  Wellon  accepted,  at  once,  the  ready  hospitality ; 
and  Jesse,  saying  "  Come  then,  Izik,"  led  the  way  over  to 
his  house,  with  a  very  steady,  careful  step,  and  without 
speaking.  Skipper  Charlie  was  not  among  the  company 
at  the  moment;  the  other  fishermen,  besides  Jesse  and 
his  mate,  took  care  of  themselves. 

The  cap  was  deposited  safely  upon  the  Family  Bible, 
to  await  their  coming  back  from  the  new  expedition  ;  and 
then  Jesse's  wife,  a  pretty  woman,  once  Prudence  Frank, 
from  Frank's  Cove,  (glad  enough  to  exercise  hospitality 
for  the  Minister,)  urged  him,  modestly,  to  "  plase  to  make 
use  o'  the  milk,"  (which  is  quite  a  luxury  among  planters 
of  the  out  harbors,)  and  of  the  '  scrod,'  *  and  all  her  sim 
ple  dainties. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  had  finished  their  hurried  meal, 
and  were  shortly  at  the  water-side.  Zebedee  and  the  other 
were  already  there. 

They  skirted  the  shore  along  by  Frank's  Cove,  and 
Mad  Cove,  and  round  Mad  Head  and  Castle-Bay  Point. 
Nothing  had  been  seen  or  heard  that  would  throw  light 
upon  the  mystery,  and  the  Minister  set  out  to  go  back  on 
foot  along  the  beach  and  the  little  path  by  the  water's 
edge  on  the  Peterport  side,  while  the  boat's  crew  made 
the  best  of  their  way  by  water. 

The  beach  was  strewed  with  empty  shells,  and  weeds, 
and  rubbish,  and  whited  with  a  line  of  foam,  and,  as  it 
chanced,  among  the  other  worthless  things  there  lay  a 
*  A  fresh  young  fish  broiled. 

VOL.    I.  11 


162  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

woman's  shoe  which  Mr.  Wellon  ran  to,  and  snatched 
eagerly,  but  saw  at  a  glance,  was  nothing  to  his  purpose. 
He  threw  it  from  him  into  the  water,  and  his  dog,  exult 
ing,  leaped  in  and  secured  it.  His  search  was  done,  and 
he  went  slowly  home. 

When  at  length  after  waiting  hours,  that  information, 
if  any  were  to  come,  might  come,  he  sought  Jesse,  who 
was  the  depositary  of  the  little  thing  recovered  from  the 
sea ;  the  day — the  last  of  the  week, — was  drawing  towards 
evening,  and  twenty-four  hours  had  passed  since  Lucy's 
strange  and  sad  disappearance. 

"  I  said  I  wouldn'  start  un  tell  'ee  corned,  sir,"  said  Jesse. 

"  'Ee  did  so,  Jesse,"  said  Isaac,  who  was  still  with  him, 
and  without  delay  the  little  procession  set  forth. 

The  fisherman  bore  the  relic  reverently  in, his  two 
hands,  and  carefully  and  quickly,  as  if  it  were  an  unsub 
stantial  thing  of  frost,  that  might  be  wasted  by  the  way. 
Near  the  door  of  the  house  of  mourning,  Jesse  and  Isaac 
drew  aside  and  would  not  go  in,  and  Jesse  gave  the  slight 
memorial  into  the  Parson's  hand,  and  he,  uncovering 
himself,  went  in  alone. 

Skipper  George,  who  sate  silently  in  his  chimney-side, 
with  his  wife  and  little  Janie,  rose  up  and  took  off  his 
hat  on  seeing  his  pastor ;  the  wife  courteseyed  and  wept. 

The  Minister  put  the  relic  into  his  hand,  without 
speaking. 

"  Have  'ee —  ?  'Is,  sir, — Ts,  sir,"  said  the  father,  con 
fusedly,  taking  the  precious  thing,  but  turning  it  over  as 
if  he  could  not  see  it,  for  something  in  his  eyes,  "it's 
her's,  it's  her's.  Ah  !  God's  will  be  done !  " 

Mr.  Wellon  said  nothing  of  the  constable's  hope  or 
expectation  of  tracing  her. 

The  mother  sobbed  once,  and  wept  silently,  and  Skip 
per  George  rallied  himself. 


SEARCHING   STILL.  163 

"  So  !  so  !  mother,"  said  he,  soothingly,  "  this  '11  never 
do !  There,  there  !  take  it  and  put  it  by ;  mayhap  the 
dear  maid  '11  wear  it  agin,  in  short,  please  God." 

The  Minister's  eye  was  caught  by  a  lead-pencil-drawing, 
that  lay  on  the  bench. 

"  That's  her  doun,  sir,"  said  the  father,  sadly. 

"  I  did  n't  know  she  could  draw,"  answered  the  Minis 
ter,  taking  into  his  hand  the  paper,  blurred  somewhat, 
and  blistered. 

"  No  more  did  n'  I,  sir ;  it  was  the  last  doun  she  doned ; 
we  found  it  next  day  where  she  dropped  it,  when  she 
went  to  bed.  She  must  ha'  larned  o'  Miss  Dare,  or  the 
widow-lady." 

The  Minister  gazed  long  at  it,  and  then  said, — "  I  don't 
know  much  about  drawing ;  but  I  should  say  there  was 
great  talent  here.  I  can't  think  how  she  should  be  able 
to  do  this  ice." 

"Athout  she  minds  about  the  ice  comun  in,  years  ago, 
when  she  was  a  little  thing,  about  so  big  as  Janie." 

"It's  wonderful,  really!"  said  the  Minister.  "This 
vessel  going  off,  and  the  man  left  behind." 

Skipper  George  said,  in  a  low  voice, — 

"Ay,  sir,  that  vessel  never  corned  home  again !  Nor 
no  word  ever  corned  of  her! — Will  'ee  plase  make  a 
pr'yer,  sir  ?  "  added  the  father. 

All  kneeled  down  by  the  fireside  ;  the  mother  crying  ; 
the  father  full  of  woe  as  he  could  hold,  but  more  full  of 
faith  and  will,  and  little  Janie  holding  fast  in  both  hands 
some  stones  with  which  she  had  been  at  play. 

The  Minister  prayed  for  help  to  find  the  lost  child,  and 
for  grace  to  do  and  bear  God's  will,  and  to  learn  meekly 
His  lesson. 

"  Would  n'  'ee  be  plased  to  set  fast,  %ir  ?  "  asked  the 


164  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

fisherman,  as  his  Pastor  moved  to  go.  "  Well,  sir,  we 
shall  be  proud  to  see  'ee  again ;  and — it  comes  heavy  to 
bear ;  but  we'll  do  our  best,  wi'  God's  help." 

The  sturdy  man  followed  the  Minister  to  the  outside 
of  the  house,  and  then,  lowering  his  voice,  said, — 

"  I've  abin  to  B'y-Harbor,  sir,  an'  I've  abin  to  Brigus ; 
but  there's  nawthun,  sir ! " 

"  By  land  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Wellon. 

"  'Is,  sir,  an'  put  my  poor  ol'  sorry  face  into  amany, 
many  houses — but  they  were  kind,  sir,  they  were  all 
kind,  sir.  They  sid  I  was  heavy  hearted,  an'  they  were 
very  pitiful  over  me." 

"Why,  you've  been  forty  miles!"  said  Mr.  Wellon, 
rather  to  himself.  "It  must  be;  besides  being  out  all 
night.  You  must  take  rest.  It's  a  duty." 

"  Ts,  sir,  an'  to-morrow  's  Sunday,  and  even  when  the 
Lord  was  dead,  they  w'ited  an'  (  rested  on  the  Sabbath- 
day,  according  to  commandment,'  afore  ever  they  'd  'balm 
'E's  blessed  body.  There  isn'  e'er  a  thing  to  be  doned 
now,  sir,  that  I  knows,  an'  I  m'y  as  well  rest  bumbye, 
an'  ef  I  can't,  mubbe,  get  sleep  right  aw'y,  I  can  pr'y 
for  un,  however." 

"And  good  days  will  come,  I  hope,  shortly." 
"Ay,  sir,  they  '11  come,"  said  Skipper  George.    "  They 
'11  come  ! " 

How  far  ahead  he  looked,  he  gave  no  sign;  but  he 
spoke  confidently. 

"An'  I  know  she'll  find  home,"  he  said,  "  ef  she  never 
comes  to  this  place  no  more,  sir.  There's  others  have 
agot  sore  hearts,  so  well  as  we.  That  good  lady  that's 
loss'd  'er  husband  an'  'er  child,  takes  stren'th,  an'  comforts 
them  that  wants,  an'  I  musn'  give  up." 
Mr.  Wellon  pressed  his  hand  and  left  him. 


SEARCHING  STILL.  165 

As  he  came  out  upon  the  ridge  from  which  he  was  to 
go  down  to  the  road,  his  eye  was  caught  by  the  flash  of  a 
white  sail,  and  he  stopped  to  gaze. 

It  was  the  Spring-bird  gliding  fast  by  the  land  in  her 
way  out  to  Bay-Harbor,  from  which  she  was  to  clear  for 
Madeira.  A  ship's  silent  going-forth  is  a  solemn  thing, 
and  to  sad  minds  a  sad  one.  There  was  silence  too  on 
board  the  brig,  in  this  case,  in  tribute  to  the  prevailing 
sorrow  of  the  little  town,  and  she  had  no  streamer  or  flag 
flying  at  peak  or  truck. 

Does  the  sea  hold  the  secret  ? 

Along  the  wharves,  along  the  little  beaches,  around  the 
circuit  of  the  little  coves,  along  the  smooth  or  broken  face 
of  rock,  the  sea,  which  cannot  rest,  is  busy.  These  little 
waves  and  this  long  swell,  that  now  are  here  at  work, 
have  been  ere  now  at  home  in  the  great  inland  sea  of 
Europe,  breathed  on  by  soft,  warm  winds  from  fruit- 
groves,  vineyards,  and  wide  fields  of  flowers ;  have 
sparkled  in  the  many-coloured  lights  and  felt  the  trivial 
oars  and  dallying  fingers  of  the  loiterers  on  the  long 
canals  of  Venice ;  have  quenched  the  ashes  of  the  Dutch 
man's  pipe,  thrown  overboard  from  his  dull,  laboring 
treckschuyt ;  have  wrought  their  patient  tasks  in  the  dim 
caverns  of  the  Indian  Archipelago ;  have  yielded  to  the 
little  builders  under  water  means  and  implements  to  rear 
their  towering  altar, — dwelling, — monument. 

These  little  waves  have  crossed  the  ocean,  tumbling 
like  porpoises  at  play,  and  taking  on  a  savage  nature  in 
the  Great  Wilderness,  have  thundered  in  close  ranks  and 
countless  numbers,  against  man's  floating  fortress ;  have 
stormed  the  breach  and  climbed  up  over  the  walls  in  the 
ship's  riven  side ;  have  followed,  howling  and  hungry  as 
mad  wolves,  the  crowded  raft;  have  leaped  upon  it, 


166  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

snatching  off,  one  by  one,  the  weary,  worn-out  men  and 
women  ;  have  taken  up  and  borne  aloft, — as  if  on  hands 
and  shoulders — the  one  chance  human  body  that  is  brought 
into  land,  and  the  long  spar,  from  which  man's  dangling 
cordage  wastes,  by  degrees,  and  yields  its  place  to  long, 
green  streamers  much  like  those  that  clung  to  this  tall, 
taper  tree,  when  it  stood  in  the  northern  forest. 

These  waves  have  rolled  their  breasts  about  amid  the 
wrecks  and  weeds  of  the  hot  stream  that  comes  up  many 
thousands  of  miles,  out  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  as  the 
great  Mississippi  goes  down  into  it,  and  by  and  by  these 
waves  will  move,  all  numb  and  chilled,  among  the  mighty 
icebergs  and  ice-fields  that  must  be  brought  down  from 
the  poles. 

Busy,  wandering,  reckless,  heartless,  murderous  waves ! 
Have  ye  borne  down  into  the  ravening  mouths  of  the 
lower  Deep,  the  innocent  body  of  our  missing  girl,  after 
that  ye  had  tossed  it  about,  from  one  to  another,  un 
twining  the  long  hair,  one  lock  of  which  would  be  so  dear 
to  some  that  live ;  smearing  the  eyes  that  were  so  glad 
and  gladdening ; — sliming  the 

Oh  !  is  that  body  in  the  sea  ? 

There  is  more  than  one  mystery  in  little  Peter- 
port. 


WHICH  WAY  SUSPICION  LEADS.  167 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

WHICH    WAY    SUSPICION    LEADS. 

,HE  Minister  had  had  no  time  for  Mrs.  Barre,  or 
any  thing  but  the  search.  That  Saturday  evening 
he  and  the  constable  sate  together  in  consultation 
in  the  former's  study,  putting  together  their  information 
and  conjectures.  Gilpin's  suspicions  had*been  aroused  as 
soon  as  his  eye  fell  on  the  Prayer-book  that  he  had  se 
cured  at  Mr.  Urston's ;  and  he  had  found,  in  the  middle,  a 
book-mark  bearing  a  drawing  of  a  lamb,  with  the  legend, 
"  I  am  the  Good  Shepherd,"  and  the  letters  "  L.  B."  in 
delicate  German  text.  This  mark  Miss  Dare  had  already 
recognized  as  one  which  she  herself  had  given  to  Lucy 
Barbury,  since  her  sickness.  On  the  inside  of  the  cover, 
however,  was  the  name  "Lucy  Barbury"  still  legible, 
from  having  been  also  written  in  German  text,  though 
with  a  less  practised  hand.  The  latter  had  been  iden 
tified  by  the  mother  as  Lucy's  own  writing. 

The  present  condition  of  the  book,  taken  in  connection 
with  Mrs.  Calloran's  conduct  in  regard  to  it,  made  it 
probable  that  it  was  in  her  house  that  it  had  been  given 
to  the  fire. 

Moreover  she  would  not  answer  a  plain  question 
whether  she  had  seen  the  missing  maiden  since  Friday 
morning. 


168  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

— "  But  she  contrived  to  tell  different  stories  about  the 
Prayer-book,"  said  the  Minister ;  "  why  shouldn't  she, — 
if  she  had  occasion, — about  seeing  Lucy  Barbury  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  they  won't  lie  to  a  straightforward  ques 
tion  ;  and  they'll  lie  fast  enough,  of  their  own  tongue  : 
and  then  the  Priest  was  there  that  time,  and  he  wasn't, 
the  other." 

"  You're  too  severe  upon  Roman  Catholics,"  said  Mr. 
Wellon. 

"  Not  upon  her  sort  o'  Roman  Catholics,"  answered  the 
constable ;  "  I  know  'em,  sir, — too  well." 

"  We  seem  to  have  traced  her  to  just  about  that  place," 
said  Mr.  Wellon,  musing ; — "  so  far  she  seems  to  have 
gone  on  her  own  feet, — and  alone." 

— "  And  there.they  picked  her  up,  when  she  fell  down," 
said  the  constable,  "  and  then  those  nuns  carried  her  off." 

"  What  nuns  ?  " 

"  That  Cap'n  Nolesworth  saw  ;  and  this  Yankee, — Mr. 
Banks,  they  call  un,  sir, — he  was  prying  about  there,  last 
night,  just  when  these  nuns  were  going  away  from  the 
house.  When  he  was  telling  his  story  he  said  they  car 
ried  something ;  and  so  I  followed  un  up.  He  couldn't 
tell  what  it  was,  for  the  night  was  dark  ;  but  there  were 
two  or  three  women,  and  carrying  something  among  'em 
down  the  Worrell,  there.  Being  a  stranger,  he  didn't 
want  to  be  brought  in,  he  said;  'twould  knock  up  his 
business." 

"  It's  a  pity  he  hadn't  helped  carry  her  down,  while  he 
was  about  it ! "  said  the  Parson ;  "and  then  we  should 
have  had  some  better  evidence." 

"  Then  there's  Cap'n  Nolesworth  knows  what  he's 
about ;  and  he  come  right  across  their  punt,  and  had  a 
good  look  at  it,  with  his  lantern.  They  pulled  for  dear 


WHICH  WAY  SUSPICION  LEADS.  169 

life :  but  he  says  he's  sure  he  saw  somebody  they  were 
holding  up. — That's  how  her  cap  got  down  there,"  con 
cluded  the  constable. 

The  Minister  was  struck  with  Gilpin's  statement,  which 
was  confirmed,  slightly,  by  the  few  circumstances  and 
facts  of  the  case  within  their  knowledge. 

"  But,"  said  he,  "  there's  no  proof,  and  who  do  you 
suppose  is  at  the  bottom  of  it  ? " 

"  I  believe  Granny  Calloran  is,  sir ;  and  that  priest, 
Father  Nicholas."  Mr.  Wellon  smiled. — "  And  then 
that  new  priest  just  coming  here ! "  exclaimed  the  con 
stable. 

"  It's  a  <  popish  plot,'  with  a  vengeance ! "  said  the 
Minister;  "with  priests  and  nuns  and  all.  But  what 
should  she  do  it  for  ?  and  what  should  the  priests  and 
nuns  be  concerned  in  it  for  ?  " 

"  If  Granny  Calloran  got  a  fair  chance  at  one  of  Mrs. 
Barbury's  daughters, — ay,  and  one  that  young  Urston 
was  leaving  their  priesthood  for, — she'd  do  it  fast  enough, 
sir,  I'll  go  bail.  She'd  steal  'em  to  make  Romans  of  'em ; 
and  she'd  steal  her  to  get  her  out  of  his  way ;  and  the 
priests  and  nuns  'd  be  ready  enough  to  lend  a  hand  at 
that  work,  and  no  mistake.  'Twas  only  t'other  day  there 
was  that  case  at  home,  in  Lancashire." 

"  Ay,  but  Lucy  can't  have  conspired  with  them,"  said 
the  Minister,  upon  whom  Gilpin's  convictions  made  some 
impression  ; — "  if  there's  any  thing  sure  on  earth  ! " 

"  I  can't  say  for  that,  sir,"  said  Gilpin  ;  but  then,  cor 
recting  himself,  did  justice  to  Lucy,  without  injustice  to 
his  argument.  "  Oh  no  !  "  said  he,  "  if  there's  truth  on 
earth,  she's  got  it ;  but  she's  been  crazy,  by  spurts,  ever 
since  she  was  sick,  you  know,  sir." 

"  To  be  sure,"  answered  the  Parson  ;  "  but  she  hasn't 


170  THE  NEW   PRIEST. 

run  away  every  day ;  and  I  don't  suppose  these  nuns 
have  been  over,  every  day ;  and  they  happened,  some 
how,  to  be  just  in  time." 

"  So  they  might,  sir,  they  might ;  just  as  it  happened 
there  was  nobody  with  Lucy,  and  nobody  in  the  way,  on 
the  whole  path.  The  nuns  were  there,  any  way,  sir ;  and 
Lucy  was  down  there, — Jesse  saw  her  on  the  road ; — and 
there's  her  Prayer-book, — come  out  o'  the  house ;  and  the 
nuns  carried  something  down ;  and  you  found  her  cap 
down  below ;  and  there  was  the  one  Cap'n  Nolesworth 
saw  in  the  punt,"  answered  the  constable,  summing  up, 
very  effectively ;  "  and  Granny  Calloran  afraid  to  answer, 
till  the  priest  told  her  how ;  and  doing  her  worst  not  to 
let  me  have  that  book  ;  and  he  helping  her." 

"  How  do  you  mean  '  telling  her  how  to  answer  ? '  * 
"  I  asks  her,  '  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Barbury's  daughter, 
since  yesterday  morning  ? '  three  times  ;  and  she  puts  rne 
off  with  Irish  palaver ;  and  then  he  says,  '  you  needn't 
keep  'em  waiting,  Mrs.  Calloran;  you  can  tell  whether 
you  know  where  she  is ; '  and  so  she  says,  fast  enough, 
*  No ;  I  don't  know,  any  more  than  I  knows  where  the 
Injins  is  ; '  or  '  the  wild  Injins.' " 

"  Do  you  think  young  Urston  is  concerned  ?  " 
"  I  don't  think  he  is,  sir ;  he  doesn't  seem  like  it.  He 
didn't  seem  to  be  one  of  'em  t'other  day.  He's  very  much 
cut  up,  and  he's  been  out  all  night ;  but  that  isn't  all. 
When  I  saw  things  looking  that  way,  I  thought  I'd  make 
one  of  'em,  if  I  could,  while  that  priest  was  there ;  and 
I  got  one  ear  in  among  'em,  far  enough." 

"  The  priest  talked  very  serious  to  the  young  man,  and 
said  '  he  was  sorry  for  his  disappointment ;  it  seemed  a 
visitation  of  God,'  he  said.  '  Now  he'd  find  he  couldn't 
set  his  heart  on  earthly  things  ;  and  the  only  way  was  to 


WHICH  WAY  SUSPICION  LEADS.  171 

fly  to  God  while  the  wound  was  fresh ;  to  think  of  his 
promises  ;  and  to  think  what  he'd  cast  away.'  He  said 
i  others  had  been  through  it ; '  (and  it  seemed  as  if  he'd 
cry,  while  he  was  about  it ;)  '  but,'  he  said,  '  they'd  found 
the  balm,'  or  '  the  myrrh ' ;  and  then  he  came  to  busi 
ness,  and  told  un  *  to-morrow  was  the  very  day  for  un  to 
go  to  St.  John's ;  and  he'd  go  along  with  un,  and  there 
was  a  glorious  path  for  un.'  Mrs.  Calloran  only  vexed 
un,  with  telling  him  how  Protestants  despised  un." 

"  You  listened  to  some  purpose,"  said  the  Parson. 

"  Well,  sir,  I'd  good  reason." 

"And  how  did  he  take  it  all  ?  " 

"  He  told  the  priest  *  he  was  sorry  to  disappoint  un ; 
but  his  mind  was  made  up,  and  he'd  given  over  being  a 
priest ; '  and  then  there  was  a  stir  among  'em,  and  I  come 
away,  and  in  two  or  three  minutes  the  priest  was  riding 
away  home." 

The  Minister  sate  a  little  while  in  thought,  and  then 
said : — 

"  If  they  carried  her  away,  it's  a  very  strange  thing ! 
There  seems  certainly  a  clue  as  fine  as  a  spider's  web, 
leading  to  that  suspicion." 

"  It  looks  as  plain  as  a  ship's  wake  to  me,  sir,"  said 
Gilpin,  his  eye  shining  like  the  star  that  guides  sailors  on 
a  trackless  sea. 

"  But  what  can  we  make  of  it,  beyond  suspicion  ?  " 

"  If  we  had  a  magistrate  that " the  constable  began, 

in  a  tone  of  small  observance  towards  the  greater  official 
under  or  around  whom  he  moved. 

"  We've  got  a  magistrate,"  said  the  Parson,  smiling, 
taking  the  words  as  if  there  had  not  been  a  "  that "  at 
their  end  ;  "  and  we  must  get  all  this  before  him.  Will 
you  go  to  Mr.  Naughton,  and  tell  him  what  you've  seen 


172  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

and  heard  ?  and  I'll  make  a  memorandum  of  what  we've 
been  over  to-night,  to  serve,  if  there's  occasion." 

"  And  we'd  better  not  talk,  sir,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Oh !  no.  Is  that  Mr.  Bangs,  the  American,  to  be 
had,  if  he's  wanted  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Wellon. 

"  He's  going  to  set  up  a  shop  here,  in  fall,  I  believe, 
sir.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he'd  gone  down  to  Bay  Har 
bor  (whatever  he's  after)  : — he  asked  me  if  I  thought  he 
could  do  a  little  trading  with  the  priests,  there. — And 
Cap'n  Nolesworth's  at  Bay  Harbor,  by  this  time." 

"  Well,  then,  we  can't  do  any  more,  now ;  but  Chris 
tian  men  mustn't  forget  to  pray.  If  any  thing  turns  up, 
to-morrow,  please  let  me  know  it." 

The  constable  had  something  more  upon  his  mind,  and 
presently  said,  as  he  rose  to  go  (but  he  said  it  with  hesi 
tation,  as  if  it  were  not  of  his  business)  : — 

"  I  suppose  you  heard  about  this  new  priest  and  the 
widow-lady,  Mrs.  Berry,  sir  ?  More  than  one  thing  goes 
on  at  once,  in  this  world." 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  Minister  answered. 

"  There's  stories  going  about  the  harbor,  that  they've 
had  meetings,  down  at  some  Roman  Catholic's, — in  Mad 
Cove,  they  say, — and  passed  some  high  words ;  but  it's 
very  likely,  only  people's  talk.  They  say  one  of  'em 
seems  to  have  some  sort  of  claim  upon  the  other,  or 
they're  relations,  or  something.  Some  says  it's  about 
some  great  fortune ;  that  he's  her  brother,  and  wants  to 
get  all  away  to  give  to  his  Church.  (They  say  he  looks 
like  her.)  I  hears  he  got  into  a  great  passion  and  was 
very  abusive,  and  she  just  as  gentle  as  a  lamb ;  but  I  don't 
believe  that  of  him,  for  Skipper  George  and  everybody 
gives  un  a  good  name  for  being  very  civil-spoken,  and 
kind  in  his  way." 


WHICH  WAY   SUSPICION   LEADS. 


173 


"  I  don't  believe  it,  either ;  but  I  know  that  they're 
related — probably,  nearly.  He  does  look  like  her :  I'd 
forgotten. — Now,  you'll  tell  me,  to-morrow,  if  any  thing 
happens,  please.  Good-night ! " 

The  day's  work  was  done,  and  the  week's ;  but  there 
lay  over  a  heavy  burden  for  the  coming  time  to  bear. 


174  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

THE    DAY   FOR   REST. 

N  the  next  day,  Sunday,  it  may  well  be  thought 
that  the  church  showed  signs  of  general  sorrow ; 
tidings  had  come  from  every  quarter,  and  nothing 
could  be  heard  of  Lucy  Barbury.  Before  the  flag  (which 
had  not,  that  morning,  flung  its  white  cross  abroad  upon 
the  fresh  air,  but  had  hung  heavily)  was  hauled  down, 
the  little  parties,  by  land  and  water,  gathered,  anxious 
and  agitated-looking,  instead  of  wearing  the  Day's  peace ; 
and  silently  and  straight  down  the  road,  with  his  broad 
head  bowed,  came  Skipper  George,  without  his  wife,  and 
escorted  by  Jesse  Hill  and  Isaac  MafFen  on  the  one  side, 
and  Mr.  Skilton  (the  second  smith)  on  the  other.  Sev 
eral  women,  of  his  family  and  neighbors,  followed  him  in 
silence.  As  the  brave  man  came  to  the  point  at  which 
he  was  to  turn  up  from  the  road  to  the  church-door,  he 
gave  one  glance  over  to  the  sea,  and  one  over  the  land  ; 
then,  as  if  forgetting  himself,  took  off  his  hat  in  the  open 
air.  At  the  instant,  every  man's  head  was  silently  un 
covered,  and  every  woman  dropped  a  silent  courtesy. 

It  had  been  customary  to  chant  the  Canticles  and 
Doxology,  as  well  as  to  sing  the  Metre-psalms  and 
Hymns;  but  this  day,  the  chief  bass  (Skipper  Charlie) 
was  not  in  his  place.  Mr.  Piper's  violin, — which,  for  love 


THE  DAY  FOR  REST.  175 

of  the  owner,  a  good-natured  Irishman,  was  allowed  to 
set  the  pitch  and  go  with  the  voices, — did  not  appear; 
and  (what  was  the  great  want)  there  was  no  heart  for 
singing.  Even  the  Clerk,  Mr.  Williamson,  trying  to 
lead,  broke  down.  The  answering  of  the  people  was 
more  full  than  usual ;  and  when  the  priest,  at  the  peti 
tion  "  to  succor,  help,  and  comfort  all  that  are  in  danger, 
necessity,  and  tribulation,"  added,  "especially  George 
Barbury,  eur  brother,  and  his  family,"  thus  binding  their 
special  sorrow  to  the  prayer  of  millions,  and  of  ages,  the 
great  voice  of  the  congregation  trembled ;  and  again,  at 
the  next  petition,  for  them  that  travel  by  sea  or  land, 
there  was  a  general  feeling,  as  if  a  wind  from  the  deep 
Bay  or  dreary  Barrens  had  blown  in.  So  morns  went  by 
at  church,  sadly.  The  Minister  preached,  out  of  his  heart, 
about  the  Lord's  having  all  in  his  hand. 

After  the  forenoon  service,  Jesse  edged  himself  up  to 
the  Minister,  and  said: — 

"'Ee  could  n'  'ave  e'er  a  funeral  sarvice,  could  'ee,  sir, 
for  Uncle  George,  to  comfort  un  up,  a  bit  ?  " 

Gilpin  was  near  enough  to  hear,  (indeed,  good  Jesse 
looked  aside  to  him,  during  the  saying  of  it,  for  his  suf 
frage,)  and  the  eye  of  the  constable  twinkled  ;  but  he  did 
not  smile  at  the  honest  fellow's  mistake. 

"  Please  God,  we  may  find  her  alive  yet,  Jesse,"  said 
he. 

"  I  wish  we  mought,  indeed,  Mr.  Gulpin,"  returned  the 
fisherman  ;  "  but  I  don't  think  it." 

Isaac  Maffen  shook  his  head,  in  melancholy  confirma 
tion. 

"  You  won't  forget  Mrs.  Barre,"  said  Miss  Dare,  to  the 
Minister,  when  she  had  opportunity. 

Gilpin  followed  the  magistrate,  Mr.  Naughton ;  and, 


176  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

having  come  to  speech  with  him,  began  to  lay  his  case 
before  him. 

"  It  '11  be  cleared  up,  Charles,"  said  the  magistrate,  sen- 
tentiously,  by  the  time  they  got  to  the  solid  part  of  it. 

"  Not  without  taking  the  law  to  it,  I'm  thinking,  sir," 
said  Gilpin. 

"  You  couldn't  do  any  thing  about  it  on  Sunday,"  an 
swered  the  stipendiary. 

"  It  isn't  a  civil  prossess,  you  know,  sir ;  it's  criminal." 

"  That  depends  upon  what  it's  called,"  said  the  magis 
trate  ;  "  but  I'm  obliged  to  go  away,  as  soon  as  possible, 
out  of  the  harbor.  If  there's  any  thing  to  be  done,  I'll 
attend  to  it  when  I  come  back.  I  shall  act  deliberately." 

So  saying,  the  Stipendiary  hurried  through  his  own 
gate. 

Gilpin  looked  after  him,  a  moment,  with  a  curious  twist 
on  his  lips ;  then,  nodding  his  head,  as  if  he  knew  of 
another  way,  went  up  the  harbor.  Mr.  Naughton's  house 
was  apart  from  the  road,  and  near  the  cliff  on  which  the 
flagstaff  stood. 

The  constable  passed  the  drung  *  that  led  up  to  his 
forge  and  dwelling,  and  keeping  on,"  to  Mr.  Worner's, 
knocked  at  the  door,  and  asked  for  Miss  Dare. 

He  took  off  his  hat,  and  scratched  his  head  with  his 
forefinger,  in  the  presence  of  the  young  lady ;  and  then, 
having  obtained  leave  to  speak  with  her  a  moment,  on 
important  business,  he  changed  her  astonishment  into 
extreme  agitation,  by  saying,  "  I've  come  about  Skipper 
George's  daughter,  please,  Miss  Dare." 

"  What  of  her  ? — Is  she  found  ? — Is  any  thing  heard 
of  her  ?  "  she  cried,  turning  paler  than  ever,  but  keeping 
command  of  herself. 

*  Narrow  way:  Old  English  from  the  same  source  as  throng. 


THE   DAY  FOE  BEST.  177 

"  Not  exactly,  Miss ;  but  there's  some  track  of  her, 
I  believe.  I  think  there's  some  living,  and  no  great 
ways  off,  that  could  tell  about  her,  if  they  were  made 
to." 

"  Well,  I  know  you've  got  plenty  of  honest  hearts  and 
hands  to  help  you :  but  if  money  is  needed,  or  will  do 
any  thing,  don't  spare  it.  It  won't  be  wanting  : — and  do 
follow  out  the  least  thing,  won't  you  ?  I  wish  I  could  do 
something  more  about  it." 

"  I'll  try  and  do  my  part,  with  a  heart  and  a  half,"  said 
the  constable  ;  "  and  there  is  something,  Miss,  if  you'll 
excuse  me  for  thinking  of  it; — it's  a  little  uncommon, 
I  know.  If  you'd  only  just  please  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Naughton,  and  get  un  to  do  something." 

"  But  I'm  not  the  person,"  said  the  young  lady,  "  to 
speak  to  Mr.  Naughton  about  his  duty." 

"  It  looks  strange,  I  know,"  answered  the  constable  ; 
"  but  Mr.  Naughton  isn't  like  everybody.  I've  been  to 
un  about  it,  and  I  couldn't  do  any  thing  with  un.  *  He 
hadn't  time :  he  was  called  away.'  I  knows  un.  He'll 
be  out  o'  the  harbor  in  half  an  hour." 

"  But  the  Minister  would  be  the  proper  person  to  speak 
to  him." 

"  It's  a  busy  day  with  his  reverence,"  said  Gilpin  ; 
"  and  besides,  Miss,  there's  no  time  to  lose ;  he'll  be  along, 
directly." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  try  to  do  ?  " 

"  To  get  him  to  take  up  some  parties  that  are  sus 
pected,  please,  Miss  Dare." 

"  What !  not  of  murdering  her  !  " 

"  No,  Miss  ;  I  don't  know  what's  been  done  to  her." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  think  about  it,  till  we  know 
something  more  ;  but  if  I  can  do  any  thing,  I'm  sure  I 

VOL.  I.  12 


178  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

will,  with  all  my  heart,  as  you  say.  Certainly  I'll  speak 
to  Mr.  Naughton,  if  that's  the  case." 

"  Thank  you,  Miss ;  and  I'll  go  out  the  back  way,  if 
you  please  ;  he  mustn't  know  that  I  was  here." 

After  the  constable's  departure,  Miss  Dare  stationed 
herself  near  the  garden  fence  by  the  road,  and  presently 
the  solid,  flat  horse-tramp,  which  brings  to  the  mind  in 
stinctively  the  image  of  a  man  rising  and  falling  in  the 
saddle,  on  a  very  hard  and  slow-going  beast,  came  to  her 
ear.  After  a  time,  the  horse  and  his  rider  made  their  ap 
pearance,  the  latter  seeming  to  be  getting  on  faster  than 
the  former,  except  that  he  never  got  over  his  head. 
Which  saw  Miss  Dare  first,  (for,  though  there  was  some 
shrubbery,  there  were  no  trees  of  any  consequence  on 
Mr.  Worner's  premises,)  cannot  be  said ;  the  effects  on 
each  were  simultaneous.  Mr.  Naughton  did  not  let  it 
appear  that  he  was  conscious  of  her  presence,  unless  in 
voluntarily,  by  coloring  and  looking  more  deliberately  to 
each  side  of  the  road  than  usual,  and  by  unusual  atten 
tion  (between  whiles)  to  his  steed.  It  seemed  to  him 
proper  to  go  over  that  part  of  the  road  (which  was  level, 
with  the  fence  on  one  side  and  storehouses  on  the  other) 
with  a  sidling,  curveting,  prancing,  and  other  ornamental 
horsemanship ;  and  he  sat  up  for  it  and  reined  in  for  it. 
Meantime  the  horse  (men  called  him,  familiarly,  "  Donk," 
from  a  certain  sparseness  of  hair  upon  his  tail)  was  will 
ing  to  sidle, — made  one  duck  with  his  head  towards  the 
curveting,  (and,  in  so  doing,  got  the  bit  between  his 
teeth,)  but  wished  to  dispense  with  the  prancing,  as  a 
vain  and  superfluous  performance.  His  notion  seemed 
to  be  that  the  sidle  might  be  made  useful  as  well  as  orna 
mental,  and  might  bring  them  up  to  the  fence  where  the 
young  lady  stood ;  and  then  he  could  nibble  the  grass,  or 


THE   DAY  FOR  REST.  179 

shut  his  eyes  and  meditate,  while  the  two  human  beings 
amused  themselves  with  conversation. 

The  beast  succeeded :  Mr.  Naughton  put  the  best  grace 
upon  it  that  he  could,  and  sat  up  on  his  steed,  a  short 
man,  with  small  eyes  and  large  whiskers. 

Miss  Dare's  address  to  the  magistrate  gave  no  evidence 
of  her  having  seen  any  thing  ridiculous  in  his  progress. 

"  You're  not  going  away  just  now,  of  all  times,  Mr. 
Naughton,  surely,"  said  she,  "  when  you're  the  only  mag-, 
istrate  ?  " 

"  Am  I  to  flatter  myself,  then,  that  my  going  or  stay 
ing  is  of  any  consequence  to  Miss  Dare  ?  " 

"  Certainly ;  and  to  every  body  in  the  place." 

"  I  knew  a  magistrate  was  of  some  little  consequence 
to  the  state  and  to  the  community,"  returned  the  stipen 
diary,  gracefully  ;  "  but  I  wasn't  aware  that  my  going  or 
coming  was  of  so  much  importance." 

"  What ! "  when  this  dreadful  case  of  Lucy  Barbury 
stands  as  it  does,  and  when  some  persons  are  suspected  ? 
Who's  to  do  any  thing,  if  the  magistrate's  not  ?  " 

"  I'm  of  opinion  that  it  won't  be  necessary  to  invoke 
the  law,"  said  Mr.  Naughton.  "  I  think  not." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  <  invoking  the  law/  " 
said  Miss  Dare ;  "  but  if  you  mean  doing  something ." 

"  It  isn't  to  be  expected  that  ladies  should  comprehend 
the  abstract  province  of  the  law;  that  seems  rather  a 
perquisite  of  the  sterner  sex,"  said  Mr.  Naughton. 
"  How  do  you  like  the  new  chancel  arrangements,  Miss 
Dare  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  can't  talk  about  ecclesiology.  I  didn't  see  any 
thing ;  but  if  any  body's  to  be  taken  up,  does  your  com 
mission  extend  so  far?  Or  must  they  send  to  Sandy- 
Harbor,  or  Bay-Harbor  ?  " 


180  THE  NEW  DRIEST. 

"  My  commission  is  of  the  most  extensive  description 
— I  could  arrest  any  man  in  this  harbor  " — answered  the 
magistrate,  sitting  up  straight  and  drawing  in  his  breath, 
"  It's  under  the  Broad  Seal." 

"  Now,  if  any  thing  can  be  done  in  this  case, — — "  she 
said,  seriously. 

"  The  majesty  of  the  law  will  be  vindicated  !  "  said  the 
stipendiary,  with  emphasis.  The  worst  part  of  him,  by 
the  way,  was  outside,  in  every  one's  sight  and  hearing. 

"  Then  you're  not  going  away,  are  you  ?  "  said  Miss  Dare. 

"  It  was  important  for  me  to  leave  the  harbor,  not 
withstanding  it's  Sunday ;  but  within  an  hour  I  shall  be 
back.  What  we  do  must  be  done  deliberately,  but  firmly. 
I  think  we  can  satisfy  the  moral  sense  of  the  community 
and  Miss  Dare." 

"  There  can  be  only  one  feeling  in  the  community,"  said 
the  young  lady,  as  Mr.  Naughton  drew  suddenly  up  the 
rein,  to  resume  his  progress. 

Animation  seemed  to  be  diffused  through  the  body  of 
the  quiescent  Donk  by  electricity,  (though  not  so  fast  as 
lightning,)  for  the  memorable  tail  went  up  by  a  jerk,  like 
that  of  the  more  intelligent  member,  to  which  the  bridle 
was  attached,  though  with  a  slight  interval.  Mr.  Naugh- 
ton,  this  time,  attempted  no  caracoling  or  capricoling,  but 
studied  to  combine  the  several  wills  of  man  and  beast  on 
one  continuous  (and  pretty  rapid)  motion.  If  he  did  not 
at  once  nor  entirely  succeed,  even  with  frequent  sharp 
spurring,  Miss  Dare  was  not  there  to  see. 

At  Evensong,  the  magistrate  was  in  his  place  at 
church;  half  an  hour  afterward,  having  briefly  listened 
to  Charles  Gilpin,  he  issued  the  decided  order : — 

"  You'll  bring  those  parties  before  me  by  ten  o'clock 
to-morrow  morning." 


THE   DAY  FOR  REST.  181 

"  I  shall  want  a  warrant,  you  know,  sir,"  said  Gilpin. 

Whether  the  stipendiary  had  forgotten,  or  wished  to 
consult  his  "  Justices'  Assistant,"  he  maintained  his  dig 
nity,  and,  at  the  same  time,  the  symmetry  of  his  arrange 
ments. 

"  You'll  call  for  that  at  ten  o'clock  this  evening," 
said  he. 


182  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

SUSPECTED    PERSONS. 

E  pass  to  the  next  day,  the  vane  of  suspicion 
having,  within    twenty-four   hours,   (though  no 
man  could  say  that  any  wind  had  been  blowing) 
got  round,  and  pointed  straight  to  Mr.  Urston's  house. 

On  the  Sunday  afternoon,  young  Urston  had  been  at 
church,  and,  after  service,  Skipper  George  had  called  the 
young  man  to  himself,  and  walked  with  him  quite  over  to 
the  Backside.  He  was  not  suspected ;  but  rumors  had 
got  about  that  three  females  went  away  in  the  punt,  in 
which  only  two  had  come. 

On  this  Monday  morning,  that  sound  so  interesting  to 
boys  and  men,  of  hammer  ringing  upon  anvil  was  not 
heard  at  Skipper  Charlie's  smithy ;  nor  that  other,  of 
blended  human  voices,  telling,  asking,  speculating  upon 
the  news  or  gossip  of  the  place ;  for  here,  where  are  no 
barbers  shops  or  coffee-houses,  every  thing  that  is  to  be 
told  and  heard  is  brought  to  the  smith's  forge,  and,  be 
ing  heated  hot.  is  laid  upon  the  anvil,  pounded,  turned, 
and  pounded  into  a  final  shape.  The  smith  and  con 
stable  himself, — whose  manifold  name  of  Gilpin,  Galpin, 
Gulpin,  might  remind  one  of  the  derivation,  NIPKIN — 
napkin — diaper — draper — TAILOR,  or  the  more  classic 
aktbitrfe — TT/£ — pax — J)U£ — CltCfjS— FOX — was,  at  about 
eight  o'clock,  walking  quickly,  with  several  companions,. 


SUSPECTED  PERSONS.  183 

along  a  path  that  led  from  near  his  house  downward  on 
the  Backside.  With  him  were  William  Frank,  commonly- 
called  Billy  Bow,  Zebedee  Marchant,  Nathan  Marchant, 
Jesse  Hill,  and  Isaac  Maffen,  who  had  severally  (except 
the  last  two)  fallen  in  behind  him  at  different  points, 
like  the  involuntary  followers  in  some  of  the  German 


"  Can  'ee  walk  in  ef  the  door  shouldn'  be  open,  Skip 
per  Charlie  ?  "  asked  Billy  Bow,  who  was  considered  a 
great  humorist  by  his  neighbors. 

"  It'll  go  hard  if  I  can't  get  into  e'er  a  house  that's  got 
a  door  or  window,  open  or  shut,"  answered  the  constable. 

u  'E's  got  to  keep  the  king's  peace,"  said  Billy  Bow  ; 
"  an'  I'm  afeared  'e'll  get  it  broke  into  a  good  many  pieces." 

"  Ef  the  constable  kicks  up  e'er  a  rout,  boys,"  said  one 
of  the  others,  "  'e've  got  a  good  many  craft  in  tow,  that 
can  keep  un  from  hurting  'isself." 

"  It  would'n'  be  good  subjecks,  an'  show  respec'  to  the 
king,  ef  we  didn'  favor  'e's  constables,  after  'e's  abin  and 
tookt  the  trouble  to  appoint  'em,  an'  'e's  trusty  an'  well- 
beloving  yeoman,  Mr.  Charles  Gulpin,  petic'lar  ;  we  mus' 
give  'em  a  chance  to  do  their  dooty,  'ee  knows,  Skipper 
Charlie,"  said  another  of  the  posse  comitatus. 

"  Let  me  ketch  ye  givin'  me  a  chance,  (without  there's 
good  cause  for  it,)  and  I'll  do  my  dooty  on  you,  very 
quick,"  returned  Skipper  Charlie. 

With  such  simple  attempts  at  wit,  did  the  quiet  and 
good-natured  Newfoundlanders  follow  their  "  officer  ;  "  and 
with  such  downright  authority  did  the  officer  maintain  the 
dignity  of  the  law  and  the  constabulary.  Other  topics 
also  occupied  them  :  Jesse  was  engaged  in  literary  criti 
cism  ;  having  listened  at  the  window  of  the  Wesleyan 
Meeting-house,  at  a  funeral,  and  then  given,  to  a  Wes- 


184  .       THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

leyan  friend  who  asked  it,  the  opinion  he  was  now  repeat 
ing:— 

" '  Abner,'  I  says,  '  there  was  text  out  of  Scripture, 
sure/  I  says,  *  an'  a  little  about  how  we  ought  to  do,'  I 
says;  'jus'  like  anybody;  an'  then  varses  an'  scraps  o* 
poultry,  an'  such ;  an'  then  more,  agen,  an'  so  on ;  but  'e 
wasn'  a  proper-growed  sarmun,  at  all,'  I  says ;  '  not  what 
I  calls  proper-growed.'  So  then  he  couldn'  say  nothin' ; 
when  I  telled  un  that,  'e  couldn' " 

"  Come,  Jesse,  he  couldn't  answer  you"  said  the  con 
stable.  "  Now,  you  half,  go  across  here, — (I  don't  want 
any  more ;  if  any  comes,  send  'em  back,) — and,  when  ye 
git  within  hail  o'  the  house,  bring  up,  all  standing,  and 
lay  to  ;  an'  don't  stir  tack  nor  sheet,  till  I  tells  ye.  They'll 
be  just  about  coming  in  from  the  water." 

So — giving  his  orders,  like  a  good  general,  in  his  peo 
ple's  familiar  tongue — Gilpin  went  on  with  the  other  half 
of  his  followers.  Presently,  he  sent  off  a  second  detach 
ment,  with  like  instructions.  While  still  a  good  way  off 
the  place,  he  and  his  companions  were  astonished  at  see 
ing  in  front  of  them,  going  fast  in  the  same  direction,  the 
tall,  strong  figure  of  the  bereaved  father. 

"  We'll  follow  un,  without  sayin'  any  thing,"  said  Gil- 
pin  ;  and  accordingly,  on  overtaking  him,  they  kept 
quietly  in  his  rear. 

On  Skipper  George's  becoming  aware  of  his  being  fol 
lowed,  he  turned  about. 

"  Save  ye,  kindly,  nighbors ! "  said  he.  "  Ef  'ee  'm 
goun  for  company,  it's  proper  kind  of  'ee  to  take  part  wi' 
a  poor,  afflicted  man,  lookun  for  'e's  loss.  I've  ahard 
they  knows  somethun  o'  my  dear  maid  at  Mister  Urs- 
ton's, — I  can'  think  it !  I  can'  think  it ! — an'  I'm  goun  to 
ask  un  in  plain  words. — I  can'  think  it !  I've  asid  fine 


SUSPECTED   PERSONS.  185 

children  tookt  from  me  ere  now,  (an'  'E's  got  good  right !) 
an'  it's  'E's  will,  most  like,  to  take  she." 

He  said  no  more;  and  they,  in  their  way,  comforted 
him  : — 

"Mubbe  we'll  find  her  again,  Skipper  George,  for 
all." 

They  came  silently  to  the  door,  and  the  father  knocked. 
When  he  entered,  Gilpin,  and  Frank,  and  Jesse  Hill,  and 
Isaac,  went  in  as  his  companions.  The  opposite  door  of 
the  house  was  just  closing  upon  "  the  new  priest,"  Mr. 
Debree. 

"  Do  'ee  know  any  thing  about  my  maid, — that's  Lucy 
Barbury  ?  "  the  father  said,  in  a  voice  scarcely  articulate. 

The  only  occupant  of  the  room  remaining  was  Mrs. 
Calloran. 

"  Is  this  Misther  Barbury,  thin  ?  "  she  asked,  somewhat 
agitated  at  the  invasion  of  so  many  men, — most  of  whom 
were  not  very  friendly-looking. 

"  You  ought  to  know  un  well  enough,  if  you  don't  know 
un,"  said  the  constable. 

"But  I  didn'  come  about  any  thing,  only  my  dear 
maid,"  said  Skipper  George,  beseechingly ;  "  ef  'ee  knows 
any  thing  about  her.  Have  'ee  hard  ?  " 

"I'd  best  call  himself,"  said  Mrs.  Calloran;  "he's  just 
at  the  Worrell,  beyont." 

"  Ay !  call  un,  please,"  said  the  constable ;  adding,  as 
she  passed  out  of  hearing,  "  but,  if  anybody  knows  any 
thing,  you're  the  one,  I'm  thinking." 

The  father,  while  they  waited,  stood  with  his  face 
against  his  hand  upon  the  wall ;  his  grizzled  locks  looking 
so  innocent  and  touching,  that,  as  William  Frank  said 
afterwards,  "  a  body  could  sca'ce  look  at  un  wi'  dry  eyes ; 
it  was  so  feelun,  like." 


186  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

Mr.  Urston  came  in  very  frankly,  showing  no  surprise 
at  the  number  of  persons  present,  and  answered,  before 
he  was  asked  the  question,  "  that  he  did  not  know  where 
Mr.  Barbury's  daughter  was ;  he  wished  he  did ;  he 
wouldn't  keep  it  to  himself  long." 

Skipper  George,  who  had  turned  round  at  the  sound 
of  footsteps,  sank  heavily  down  into  a  chair.  It  was 
evident,  from  the  effect  of  these  words  upon  his  feelings, 
that,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  had  not  only  feared  but  hoped 
something  from  this  visit,  and  that  the  hope  was  now 
smitten  within  him. 

"  Look  to  un,  some  of  ye  ! "  cried  Gilpin.  "  Handle 
un  gently." 

"  N'y  levies,"  said  Skipper  George,  catching  his 
breath,  as  if  he  had  been  through  a  severe  struggle  in  the 
waves,  "  thankee  !  Whatever  was  o'  George  Barbury, — 
thank  God !  thank  God ! — it  bides  here  yet ;  on'y  two 
tarrible  heavy  blows  on  the  same  place, — that's  lossing 
'er  before,  an'  now,  agen,  lossin'  that  false,  foolish  hope, — 
have  abrought  me  down.  I'm  a  poor,  sinful  Christen ; 
but  I  am  a  Christen,  an'  I  can  get  up. — I  believes  'ee, 
Mister  Urston ;  I'm  sorry  to  trouble  'ee ;  but  'ee  knows 
I've  alossed  my  child!  Some  thinks  'ee'd  want  to  turn 
her  from  her  religion ;  but,  ef  'ee  had  e'er  a  chance,  'ee 
wouldn'  make  a  cruel  trial  of  her  dear,  tender  heart,  nor 
her  faith  in  the  dear  Saviour  she  loved  an'  sarved  sunce 
ever  she  knowed  'E's  blessed  name  !  "Would  'ee  ?  " 

There  was  something  very  affecting  in  this  speech  and 
the  father's  tears  that  accompanied  it. 

Mr.  Urston  said  that  "  if  ever  he  should  hear  of  her,  or 
find  her,  or  any  trace  of  her,  the  father  should  hear  of  it 
as  soon  as  he  could  get  the  word  to  him  ;  "  and  he  said  it 
with  much  feeling.  "  They  were  of  a  different  religion, 


SUSPECTED  PEKSONS.  187 

perhaps,  but  not  of  a  different  nature.  He  felt  for  him 
from  the  bottom  of  his  heart." 

"  Her  faith's  nothing  that  can  be  turned  about,"  said 
James  Urston.  "  It  would  go  through  fire  unhurt." 

At  this,  Mrs.  Calloran  made  some  remark  aside,  which 
could  not  be  overheard.  Skipper  George  thanked  the 
young  man,  and  rose  to  go,  declining,  kindly,  the  hospit 
able  invitations  urged  upon  him. 

"  Go  with  un,  Jesse,"  said  Skipper  Charlie  ;  and  Jesse 
and  his  adherent  went  out  with  him. 

"  Now,  I've  got  a  bit  of  disagreeable  dooty  to  perform," 
said  the  constable,  as  he  proceeded  quickly  to  lay  his  hand 
upon  one  after  another  of  those  present,  and  to  arrest 
them. 

"  This  is  my  Warrant,"  said  he.  "  I'm  doing  my  dooty, 
and  I'll  do  it  as  civilly  as  I  know  how.  I'm  commanded 
to  have  the  bodies  of  Bridget  Calloran,  and  Thomas 
Urston,  and  James,  '  before  me,  the  worshipful  Ambrose 
Naughton,  Esquire,  Stipendiary  Magistrate,  &c.  &c. ;  as 
witness  my  hand  and  seal  of  office.' " 

Gilpin's  proceeding  astounded  Mr.  Urston  and  his  son, 
and  was  very  exciting  to  all  present ;  to  whom  capiases, 
and  warrants,  and  writs,  are  strange  things.  Even  the 
smile  with  which  Gilpin  (who  was  more  familiar  with 
such  things — theoretically,  at  least — )  read  Mr.  Naugh- 
ton's  indirect  assertion  of  his  official  dignity,  did  not  take 
from  the  excitement. 

"  Sure,  an'  is  this  English  law,  thin,  that  they  brag 
about  ?  Bring  up  their  bodies  to  examine  thim !  Kill 
thim  first,  an'  try  thim  after ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Calloran. 
"Is  this  the  way  it  is  wid  yes?  an'  is  this  Protestant 
justice  ?  Sure,  it's  small  justice  ye  can  do  an  a  corrups  ! 
And  do  you  raly  many  to  kill  us,  thin,  ar  what  ?  " 


188  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

Mrs.  Calloran  was  readyto  contend  with  her  tongue, 
as  in  the  encounter  of  two  days  before ;  but  a  look  from 
Mr.  Urston, — who  acted  and  spoke  with  a  self-possession 
and  dignity  that  contrasted  strongly  with  his  surround 
ings, — put  her  to  silence. 

"  He  could  not  understand  this  most  extraordinary  pro 
ceeding,"  he  said,  "  and  knew  no  more  of  '  abducting  or 
carrying  away'  Mr.  Barbury's  daughter,  than  the  father 
did ;  but  would  make  no  resistance  to  a  legal  warrant." 

For  Mr.  Barbury's  sake,  he  begged  that  his  premises 
might  be  thoroughly  searched.  The  constable  complied ; 
but  the  search  found  nothing. 

Mrs.  Calloran's  submission  in  Mr.  Urston's  presence, 
could  not  prevent  her  crying  out  at  this  point, — 

"  Will  ye  sind  for  the  praste,  thin  ?  Sind  for  the 
praste !  There's  Father  Ignashis  is  at  Misther  O'Rourke's 
beyant;  they'll  niver  deny  us  the  sacramints  from  our 
own  clargy !  Will  ye  sind  for  the  praste  ?  " 

"  May  be  we'll  have  to  send  for  them  bimebye,"  said 
Gilpin  aside.  He  then  comforted  Mrs.  Calloran  with  an 
assurance,  "  that  she  should  hang  like  a  Christen,  if  she 
was  found  guilty." 

The  preparations  for  going  were  soon  made ;  the  con 
stable  assuring  his  prisoners  that,  at  any  rate,  they  could 
come  home  a  bit  after  the  examination,  even  if  the  magis 
trate  should  commit  them.  So  they  set  forth  for  the  wor 
shipful  magistrate's  presence. 

One  after  another  of  Gilpin's  former  escort  made  his 
appearance  by  the  way.  Jesse  Hill,  also,  and  Isaac 
Maffen  reappeared. 

Mr.  Urston  complimented  the  constable  upon  his  gen 
eralship  ;  but  assured  him  that  he  didn't  want  so  much 
help. 


SUSPECTED   PERSONS.  189 

"  It's  good  to  have  enough  of  a  good  thing,"  said  the 
constable,  glancing  with  his  one  eye  over  his  troops. 
"  William,  you  take  command  o'  these  limbs  o'  the  law, 
will  ye  ?  Keep  about  two  or  three  cables'  length  astern, 
if  ye  know  how  much  that  is ;  or  as  much  more  as  ye 
like." 

So  Billy  Bow  took  charge  of  the  posse,  except  Jesse 
and  Isaac  (who,  with  the  constable,  made  one  for  each 
prisoner).  These  attached  themselves  to  the  immediate 
escort,  and  were  not  meddled  with.  Jesse  and  Isaac 
were  two  important  witnesses. 

Near  the  bush,  from  behind  which  Jesse  had  seen  his 
apparition  come  forth,  the  new  Priest  was  lingering  to 
meet  the  approaching  party.  Jesse,  at  sight  of  him, 
bristled,  a  good  deal  like  a  sturdy  mastiff,  and  Isaac  felt 
contagious  animosity.  Mrs.  Calloran  expressed  herself  by 
tongue. 

"  Don't  look  at  us,  yer  riverence,  Father  Ignatius,"  she 
said,  though  he  could  not  hear  her,  and  could  only  have 
seen  the  zealous  and  eager  courtesy  that  she  dropped, 
afar  off;  "  don't  look  at  the  way  they  treat  us  for  being 
Catholics." 

"You  may  as  well  keep  a  stopper  on  your  tongue, 
while  you're  my  prisoner,"  said  Gilpin,  peremptorily. 
"  I've  heard  a  good  name  of  this  gentleman ;  and  I  don't 
want  to  bring  un  into  trouble  for  meddling  with  an  officer 
in  the  execution  of  his  warrant." 

Father  Debree  stood  quite  unmoved  at  the  evidently 
hostile  expression  of  the  escort ;  or,  at  least,  if  not  un 
moved,  his  face  did  not  lose  any  thing  of  its  very  hand 
some  openness  and  dignity.  His  manner,  however,,  was 
agitated. 

He  saluted  the  prisoners  and  constable,  and  even  Jesse 


190  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

and  Isaac,  who  looked  gruff  and  implacable,  exceedingly, 
and  scarcely  returned  the  salutation.  The  constable, 
though  not  cordial  or  over-courteous,  kept  himself  from 
showing  any  active  dislike.  The  Priest  addressed  him  in 
a  very  prepossessing  voice, —  v 

"  I  think  you're  -the  constable, — Mr.  Gilpin, — are  you 
not  ?  " 

"  I'm  constable,  sir,  for  want  of  a  better,"  said  Skipper 
Charlie  ;  "  and  blacksmith,  too." 

"  May  I  have  a  moment's  conversation  with  you  ?  " 

"  Not  about  my  prisoners  ;  I'm  going  with  'em  to  the 
magistrate's.  You  can  go  along,  sir,  if  you  please,"  said 
Gilpin,  but  falling,  at  the  same  time,  in  the  rear. 

"  You  mistake  me,"  said  the  Priest ;  "  I've  no  wish  to 
interfere  between  you  and  your  prisoners.  If  I  could 
be  of  any  service,  in  a  proper  and  lawful  way,  to  any 
one  whose  friend  I  ought  to  be,  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't 
blame  it ;  but  I  want  to  ask  if  you  have  found  any 
thing  to  throw  a  light  on  Skipper  George's  daughter's 
fate?" 

"  I  hope  we  shall  find  out  about  it,"  said  the  constable, 
ambiguously. 

"Are  these  prisoners  arrested  on  suspicion  of  being 
connected  with  it  ?  " 

"  It'll  appear  on  their  examination,  sir,"  answered 
Gilpin. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  ask  any  improper  question ;  but  I 
know  the  father,  and  I  know  her,  and  I  know  them,  and 
feel  very  much  interested ; — I  ask  as  a  friend." 

Gilpin's  one  sharp  eye  had  been  fixed  on  the  speaker's 
face. 

"  I  don't  think  it  was  Protestants  have  made  way  with 
her,"  said  he. 


SUSPECTED  PERSONS.  191 

"  You  don't  suppose  she's  been  murdered !  "  exclaimed 
the  Priest. 

"  I  can't  say  what's  been  done  to  her,  sir,"  said  Gilpin, 
more  softened ;  "  but  it  looks  black." 

"  But  what  motive  could  these  people  have  ? "  asked 
Father  Debree,  much  agitated. 

"  There  might  be  motives,"  said  Gilpin ;  "  but  I  can't 
say  about  that.  There's  reasons  for  having  them  up." 

"  I'm  very  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  the  Priest ;  "  but  if  it 
was  the  nearest  friend  I  had  on  earth,  though  I  would 
do  any  thing  to  have  justice,  yet,  if  he  were  guilty,  I 
wouldn't  move  an  eyelid,  if  it  would  save  him  from  pun 
ishment. — But  I  can't  think  that  any  such  crime  has 
been  committed ;  and  I  cannot  believe  that,  if  it  had,  Mr. 
Urston  here  could  be  guilty." 

"  I  hope  not,  sir,"  said  the  constable. 

"  My  being  a  Roman  Catholic  Priest  prevents  your 
trusting  me ;  but  do  you  think  that  I  cannot  have  any 
regai  d  for  right,  or  any  feeling  for  that  father  ?  and  for 
any  father  who  had  lost  his  child?  That's  a  little  too 
severe." 

Gilpin,  who  was  an  honest,  kind-hearted  man  himself, 
was  evidently  moved  by  this  appeal.  The  Priest  ended 
by  saying,— 

"  Skipper  George  shall  not  want  any  effort  of  mine, 
with  the  neighbors,  (if  I  can  do  any  thing,)  to  recover  his 
daughter." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  sir,"  said  Gilpin  ;  "  a 
man  isn't  a  man  that  hasn't  got  a  man's  feelings. — I  can't 
say  about  Mr.  Urston ;  but  the  suspicion  lay  all  round  his 
house ;  and  he's  not  the  only  one  that  lives  in  it." 

As  they  drew  near  to  the  road,  Father  Debree  wished 
his  companion  "  good  morning ; "  and  let  him  pass  on. 


192  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

AN    OFFICIAL    EXAMINATION    FROM    WHICH    SOMETHING 
APPEARS. 

)HE  magistrate's  house,  to  the  party  now  ap 
proaching  it,  looked  as  a  house  might  look,  which, 
built  in  very  ungainly  style  and  of  no  large  dimen 
sions,  was  dignified  by  its  association  with  the  magistracy, 
and  now  clothed  in  all  the  awfulness  of  an  official  want 
of  animated  life.  Not  much  impression  seemed  to  settle 
upon  "  Mr.  Gulpin,"  or  his  prisoners,  who  walked,  with 
little  apprehension,  up  to  the  front  door ;  unmindful  how 
the  gravel-stones  were  scattered  from  their  heels ;  but  to 
the  valiant  Jesse  and  the  valiant  Isaac  an  awful  figure  of 
spectral  personation  of  Authority  or  Infliction  seemed  to 
possess  the  gate  and  plant  its  shadowy  terrors  directly  in 
the  way.  They  drew  off  to  each  side ;  accounting  for 
their  movements  by  the  remark :  "  He  don't  want  none 
of  we  yet,  I  don't  suppose,  do  'e  ?  " 

On  the  arrival  of  a  second  squad,  however,  the  first, 
as  if  they  had  received  a  sudden  summons,  anticipated 
the  new-comers  by  a  hasty  movement,  which  brought 
them  to  the  door  in  time  to  make  their  way  into  the 
kitchen  ;  while  their  official  leader  and  his  captives  went, 
under  the  guidance  of  Mr.  Naughton's  maid-of-all-work, 
mto  the  presence  of  the  magistrate ;  if  presence  it  could 


AN  OFFICIAL  EXAMINATION.  193 

bL  called,  where  he  sate  with  his  back  broadly  towards 
them. 

"  Please  your  worshipful,"  said  the  usheress,  "  it's  Mr. 
Gulpin,  sir ;  wi'  some  that  'e've  caressed,  most  like,  sir." 

"  Directly ! "  answered  the  official  voice  ;  which  then 
proceeded  to  read  in  a  low  tone,  and  hastily,  out  of  some 
book  before  him,  "  l  both  houses  of  parliament,  and ' — I 
must  look  at  that  again ;  seven  hundred  and  twenty- 
seventh  page." 

Meanwhile,  the  constable  leaving  his  charge,  for  a  mo 
ment,  standing  at  the  stipendiary's  back,  went  out  long 
enough  to  give  a  message,  of  which  the  last  words  were 
heard,  as  he  enforced  them  : — 

— "  And  mind  ye,  Jesse,  bring  un  along  :  don't  come 
without  un  ;  and  come  back  as  quick  as  you  can." 

The  ermine,  or  other  fur  of  the  magistrate,  set  itself 
up  at  this,  and  he  intimated  to  his  subordinate  that t  order 
and  silence  were  necessary  at  that  investigation.' — With 
a  large  dignity,  he  invited  the  Minister,  who  was  entering, 
to  a  seat. 

Having,  at  length,  received  the  constable's  return,  he 
proceeded  to  business  by  ordering  that  officer  to  swear 
the  prisoners  at  the  bar.  Gilpin  looked,  with  twinkling 
eye,  at  his  prisoners,  and  then  at  the  magistrate : — 

"  What'll  I  swear  'em  to,  Mr.  Naughton  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  There's  a  copy  of  the  Holy  Evangelists  here,"  said 
the  stipendiary. 

"  I  can  find  Bibles  fast  enough,  sir :  but  they're  not 
witnesses." 

"  I  may  ask  them  some  questions  and  desire  their  an 
swers  to  be  under  the  solemn  sanction  of  an  oath,"  an 
swered  the  magistrate ;  but  when  Mr.  Urston  had  the 
Sacred  Volume  held  out  to  him,  he  decidedly  objected ; 

VOL.  I.  13 


194  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

insisting  that  if  he  and  the  others  were  there  as  prison 
ers,  they  were  not  there  as  witnesses ;  and  desiring  that 
the  accusation  might  be  read,  and  the  witnesses  exam 
ined. 

The  magistrate  assured  him,  with  dignity,  that  that  was 
not  the  regular  order  of  judicial  proceedings,  but  that  he 
would  waive  the  point. 

Having,  in  his  own  way,  made  the  prisoners  acquainted 
with  the  charge,  he  said,  "  There  must  be  a  record  of  the 
proceedings  of  this  court !  Mr.  Williamson,  you  will  act 
as  clerk.  Constable,  qualify  Mr.  Williamson,  and  sum 
mon  the  witnesses." 

The  constable  having  qualified  the  clerk,  called  "  Jesse 
Hill ! "  but  there  was  no  answer ;  and  he  called  Jesse 
Hill  again,  and  again  with  no  answer. 

"  I  sent  him  after  Mr.  Banks,"  explained  Gilpin. 

"  Sending  one  witness  after  another  is  quite  irregular ; 
I  trust  that  it  will  not  occur  again.  It  will  be  my  duty 
to  suspend  the  proceedings  until  you  can  produce  Mr. 
Hill,  or  Barbury." 

At  this  moment,  Mr.  Naughton  noticed  Father  Debree 
near  the  door,  attended  by  a  shuffling  of  feet  and  a  low 
buzzing  of  the  waiting  public.  The  magistrate  with 
dignity  invited  him  to  a  seat,  but  the  Priest  preferred 
standing.  Mr.  Wellon  attempted  conversation  with  his 
new  neighbor,  but  found  him  this  day  so  reserved  or 
preoccupied  as  to  give  little  encouragement  to  the  at 
tempt. 

Mr.  Wellon,  during  the  absence  of  the  constable,  was 
entertained  by  the  stipendiary  with  an  argument  for 
having  a  "  lychnoscope  "  introduced,  as  a  sacred  accessory, 
into  the  new  chancel  of  the  church  ;  the  earnest  advocate 
for  ecclesiological  development  claiming  that  the  thing 


AN  OFFICIAL  EXAMINATION.  195 

was  so  old  that  its  very  object  and  purpose  were  entirely 
unknown. 

Gilpin,  as  he  returned,  with  Jesse  (and  Isaac)  behind 
him,  said,  in  an  under  voice,  "  I  told  un  not  to  come  with 
out  Mr.  Banks  ;  an'  so  he  stuck  to  his  orders.  I  found 
un  sitting  on  one  rock  and  Isaac  Maffen  on  another, 
neither  one  of  'em  sayin'  a  word." 

The  Stipendiary  now  crowned  his  brow  with  the  awful 
rigors  of  justice  once  more,  and  sat  as  the  chief  figure  of 
the  scene.  The  witness,  having  been  sworn,  was  ques 
tioned  : — 

"  Mr.  Barbury,  proceed.     Are  you  a  witness  ?  " 

"  Is,  sir,  ef  it's  wantun,  I'll  tell  what  I  knows." 

The  noise  of  heavy  shoes  on  the  feet  of  those  of  the 
public  furthest  back  in  the  entry,  testified  to  the  unabated 
ipterest  with  which  Jesse's  story  was  expected. 

"  What's  your  name  ?  is  the  first  question." 

Jesse  was  redder  than  usual ;  but  he  saw  his  way,  and 
gladly  opened  his  mouth. 

"  Oh  !  'ee  wants  it  that  w'y,  do  'ee,  sir  ?  «  N  or  M ' 
is  what  it  says." 

"  Ha !  you're  not  much  acquainted  with  legal  proceed 
ings,"  said  the  magistrate,  throwing  a  sentence  loaded 
with  about  the  usual  amount  of  official  wit,  of  about  the 
usual  quality,  and  glancing  at  the  Minister  to  see  if  he 
took  the  joke. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  that's  all,"  said  he  again,  to  the 
simple-minded  testifier. 

"  Jesse  Barbury's  my  name,  sir.  I  sposed  'ee  knowed 
that,  sir ! " 

"  The  Law  knows  nothing,  Mr.  Barbury.  Our  infor 
mation  is  from  the  evidence.  Have  you  any  alias,  Mr. 
Barbury?" 


196  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  No,  sir ;  I  drinkt  a  morsel  o'  tay, — Izik  Maffen  an* 
me,  sir,  afore  we  corned  !  "  answered  Jesse,  mistaking  the 
magistrate's  technicality. 

"  Are  you  ever  called  any  thing  else,  the  Law  means." 

"  They  calls  me  Hill,  sir ;  I  suppose  'ee  knows  that, 
sir." 

"  Mr.  Barbury,  what  is  your  occupation  ?  " 

"  Fishun,  sir,  fishun." 

"  Have  you  any  other  occupation,  Mr.  Barbury  ?  " 

"  I  follys  the  Church,  sir,  ef  that's  what  'ee  manes." 

"  That's  a  respectable  occupation,"  said  the  Parson, 
parenthetically. 

"  Ah !  abstract  questions  seem  to  confuse  the  witness's 
mind ;  we  will  therefore  come  to  the  point.  Mr.  Bar- 
bury,  do  you  know  any  thing  of  this  affair  of  Mr.  George 
Barbury's  daughter,  in  connection  with  any  of  the  pris 
oners  at  the  bar  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.     Skipper  George  is  my  connexion,  sir." 

"  Yes  ;  well,  tell  all  you  know." 

"  There,  that  won't  take  ye  long,  Jesse,"  said  the  con 
stable,  by  way  of  encouragement.  "  Go  at  it  your  own 
way,  Mr.  Naughton  means." 

"  Let  us  preserve  decorum,  Mr.  Constable,"  said  the 
magistrate.  "  Let  the  witness  proceed,  without  fear  or 
favor.  Which  side  is  he  on  ?  " 

"  Are  you  for  or  against,  Jesse  ?  "  asked  the  constable. 

"  Oh  !  agen  harm  comin  to  Lucy,  surely,  Mr.  Gulpin." 

If  the  solemnity  and  sadness  connected  with  the  maid 
en's  loss  did  not  prevail  in  this  examination,  it  might  have 
consoled  right-minded  spectators  to  reflect  that  this  whole 
scene  appeared  entirely  separated  and  apart  from  that 
calamity,  after  it  had  proceeded  a  little  while. 

The  witness  being  now  encouraged  to  go  on,  (all  diffi- 


AN   OFFICIAL  EXAMINATION.  197 

culties  being  taken  out  of  the  way,)  proceeded  as  follows, 
the  magistrate  ostensibly  neglecting  to  listen,  and  studi 
ously,  with  much  flutter  of  leaves,  comparing  one  place 
with  another  in  his  great  book. 

"  I  was  aw'y  over,  t'other  side,  a-jiggin  squids,  I  was ; 
and  Izik  Maffen  was  along  wi'  I ;  and  I  says  to  un,  '  Izik,' 
I  says, '  'ee  knows  Willum  Tomes,'  I  says,  '  surely.'  *  Is, 
sure,'  'e  says, '  I  does,'  to  me,  agen.  *  Well,  Izik,'  I  says, 
'  did  'ee  hear,  now,  that  'e  've  alossed  'e's  cow  ? '  I  says." 

The  magistrate  officially  cleared  his  throat  of  some 
irritation ;  the  Minister  wiped  his  face  with  his  handker 
chief,  a  circumstance  that  seemed  to  have  an  encouraging 
effect  upon  the  witness.  He  went  on  : — 

"  So  Izik  'e  says  to  I  agen,  *  No,  sure,'  'e  says,  '  did  un, 
then,  Jesse  ? '  *  Is,  sure,'  I  says,  *  'e've  alossed  she,  surely.' 
With  that  'e  up  an'  says  to  I,  '  A  loss  is  a  loss,  Jesse,'  'e 
says.  '  That's  true,'  I  says." 

This  moral  reflection  brought  the  Minister's  handker 
chief  suddenly  to  his  face  again.  The  constable  received 
the  saying  with  less  self-control,  though  it  was  as  true  as 
any  sentence  of  the  Philosophers.  William  Frank,  who 
was  further  off,  commented :  "  Wull,  wisdom  is  a  great 
thing  ;  it's  no  use  !  " — Jesse  continued. 

"  *  Izik/  I  says  to  un,  agen,  '  Izik,'  I  says,  *  do  'ee  think, 
now,  would  n'  the  squids  do  better  a  little  furderer  up  ? ' 
I  says.  With  that  we  takes  an'  rows  up  tow'rds  Kiver- 
head,  a  bit.  Wull,  after  bidin'  there  a  spurt,  I  axes  Izik 
what  e'  thowt  sech  a  cow  as  that  might  be  worth.  I 
says  " 

"You  must  remember,  Mr.  Barbury,"  interposed  the 
Stipendiary,  "  that  the  time  of  a  magistrate  is  valuable, 
not  to  speak  of  the  time  of  the  others  that  are  here." 

"  Be  'e,  now,  sir  ?  "  said  the  poor  fellow,  getting  abashed, 


198  TnE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  so  'e  must  be,  surely  ;  that's  a  clear  case.  That's  a'most 
all  I've  agot  to  s'y,  sir." 

"  Begin  just  where  you're  going  to  knock  off,  Jesse," 
suggested  the  constable. 

"  Wull,  Mr.  Gilpin,  I  were  goun  to  tell  about  what  I 
sid  myself." 

"  That's  the  very  thing,"  said  Mr.  Naughton ;  "  no 
matter  what  you  said,  or  what  was  said  to  you,  you  know." 

With  these  directions,  the  witness  paused  a  little,  hand 
ling  his  sou'wester  (hat). 

"  Whereabouts  was  we,  Izik  ?  "  he  asked  of  his  adju 
tant. 

"  'Ee  was  talkun  about  the  cow,  Jesse,  'ee  was,"  an 
swered  Isaac,  anxious  that  Jesse  should  do  justice  to 
himself. 

"  Wull,  sir."  Then  the  straightforward  witness  for  the 
Crown  began  :  "  I  was  jest  a  sayin  to  Izik,  I  was  " 

"  Your  observations  and  those  of  your  companion  (or 
friend)  are  of  comparatively  little  consequence,  Mr. 
Barbury,"  said  the  magistrate,  who  must  have  had  a 
standard  for  estimating  speech. 

"  He  means,  he  doesn't  care  what  you  and  Isaac  said," 
the  constable  prompted. 

"  'Is,  sir,  surely.     Wull,  Izik  says  to  I " 

"  Never  mind  the  sayins,  you  know,"  persisted  the  con 
stable. 

The  witness  looked  like  some  animal  in  an  inclosure ; 
but  he  did  hit  upon  the  opening  in  it. 

"  Wall,  sir,  I  sid  a  some'at  all  in  white  clothes  a  comin' 
down  Backside-w'y,  (an'  Izik  Maffen,  'e  sid  the  same,  so 
well ;)  like  a  woman  or  a  mayd,  like,  an'  it  corned  right 
along  tull  it  goed  right  aw'y,  like,  I  dono  how.  I  never 
sid  no  more  of  it." 


AN  OFFICIAL  EXAMINATION.  199 

"  Did  you  stop  to  look  ?  " 

"  Is,  sir,  surely ;  I  says  to  Izik,  *  Izik,'  I  says,  as  soon 
as  ever  I  could  speak, — for  I  was  dumb-foundered  entirely, 
first  goun  off, — {  Izik,'  I  says,  '  Did  'ee  ever  see  'e'er  a 
angel,  Izik  ?  '  '  No,  sure,  Jesse,'  he  says,  '  how  should 
I  ?  '  '  Wull  then,'  I  says,  l  that  was  a  some'at  looked 
very  like  one,  seemunly,  to  my  thinkin,'  I  says,  '  O, 
Lordy  ! '  he  says — that's  his  way,  you  know,  sir, — '  what 
'ave  abeeomed  of  'un  ?  Jesse/  he  says.  '  Mubbe'  I  says, 
i  it  was  a  goun  somewhere,  tull  it  sid  we ;  an'  now  it's 
adone  a  doun  of  it,  for  a  notion  its  ahad  I  says ;  sartainly 
we  tookt  s  wiles,  of  a  Sunday,  last  spring,'  I  says.  '  Hows- 
ever,'  I  says, '  mubbe  we'd  best  knock  off  now,'  an'  so  we 
done,  sir,  an'  corned  right  home,  sir,  round  the  land-head. 
That's  all  the  witness  I  knows." 

"  You  may  retire,  Mr.  Barbury ;  (unless  any  of  the 
prisoners  at  the  bar  desire  to  question  you.") 

This  privilege  the  prisoners  did  not  claim. 

There  was  a  monstrous  discharge  of  pent-up  breaths  at 
the  conclusion  of  this  evidence,  showing  that  a  good 
many  of  Jesse's  friends  were  in  the  passage  communicat 
ing  between  the  kitchen  and  the  parlor,  who  felt  that 
Jesse  had  more  than  satisfied  the  highest  expectations 
that  could  have  been  formed  about  his  testimony,  and  had 
contributed  to  the  fund  of  information  which  the  magis 
trate  was  gathering,  as  wonderful  an  ingredient  as  any 
that  was  likely  to  be  produced  that  day.  To  his  friends, 
as  he  modestly  withdrew  from  the  blaze  of  importance, 
he  gave  the  information  for  the  hundredth  time,  perhaps, 
that  it  was  Friday  evening  that  this  occurred  ;  that  he 
did  not  hail  the  apparition  ;  that  it  did  not  come  within 
hail ;  that  "  he  shouldn't  have  a  know'd  what  to  say  to 
it,  ef  he'd  awanted  to." 


200  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  No  more  'ee  would'n ;  that's  a  sure  case,"  said  Isaac 
Maffen. 

"Any  evidence  as  to  the  credibility  of  Mr.  Barbury 
and  his  friend,  will  now  be  admissible,"  said  the  magis 
trate,  with  dignity  tempered  by  condescension. 

"Haw!  H — "  burst  from  the  constable,  very  un 
timely  ;  a  laugh  cut  off  in  the  middle. 

Mr.  Wellon,  at  this  point  withdrew. 

"  Call  the  next  witness  !  "  said  the  magistrate,  waiving 
further  interruption. 

"  I  dono  how  to  call  un,  exactly ;  I  believe  his  name  is 
Naathan ;  but  he's  got  an  *  L,'  stuck  before  it,  I  thinks, 
from  the  way  he  spoke  it." 

« L.,  Nathan  Banks  !  L.,  Nathan  Banks !"  Gilpin 

called,  making  his  comment  also.  "  Well,  if  that  isn't  a 
way  of  writing  a  name !  I've  sid  L's  and  D's  stuck  at 
the  end,  but  sticking  'em  at  the  beginning  's  noos  to 
me." 

Our  readers  have  seen  the  world  some  days  farther  on 
than  Gilpin  had,  and  are  familiar  enough  with  a  fashion 
of  which  Mr.  Bangs,  whose  name  happened  to  be  El- 
nathan,  was  quite  innocent. 

Mr.  Bangs  did  not  appear.  "  I  thought  surely  he'd  turn 
up,  as  he  did  t'other  night,"  said  Gilpin.  "  I  didn't  tell 
un  he'd  be  summonsed ;  but  he's  got  a  sharp  nose." 

"  I  understood  that  Mr.  Wellon  could  testify,"  said  the 
stipendiary. 

"Ay;  but  without  Mr.  Banks  you  can't  weld  the 
evidence  together,  sir."  •/  •  4 

"  You'd  best  summon  him ;  and  that  point  can  be  de 
termined." 

"  'E's  just  out  in  Tom  Fielden's  house,"  timidly  sug 
gested  Nathan,  or  Zebedee,  or  some  one  of  them,  not 


AN  OFFICIAL  EXAMINATION.  201 

thinking  his  voice  fit  to  intrude  in  so  awful  a  presence. 
"  'E  went  there,  however,  a  bit  sunce." 

"  Present  my  compliments  to  him  then,  please,  one  of 
you  ;  <  compliments  of  his  worship,  the  Stipendiary  Magis 
trate,  to  the  Reverend  Mr.  Wellon,'  and  ask  if  he'll 
please  to  step  here  for  a  few  moments." 

The  "  one  "  who  undertook  this  errand  must  have  had 
an  unusual  number  of  feet,  or  of  shoes  upon  his  feet,  if 
one  judged  by  the  multitudinous  clatter  that  followed. 

The  Minister,  on  coming  in  again,  gave  his  short 
account  of  finding  the  little  cap  at  the  Worrell ;  and  that 
was  all.  The  stipendiary  spoke : — 

"  The  evidence  just  received  may  go  towards  establish 
ing  the  nature  of  the  crime  by  which  Mr.  Barbury's 
daughter  has  been  assailed;  but,  in  my  judgment,  it  would 
be  insufficient  to  fix  the  guilt  with  unerring  certainty  upon 
any  individual." 

"  I  shall  proceed  to  examine  the  remaining  witnesses  ?  " 

The  case  had  assumed  an  entirely  different  look,  since 
the  beginning  of  this  investigation,  from  that  which  it  had 
worn  when  the  Parson  and  the  constable  put  together 
their  facts  and  conjectures,  like  bits  of  a  torn  letter.  In 
the  present  condition  of  things,  Gilpin's  evidence  about 
the  Prayer-book,  and  Mrs.  Calloran,  and  Father  Nicholas, 
amounted  to  little,  unless  in  its  effect  upon  the  public 
within  hearing ;  an  effect  testified  to  by  moving  of  feet, 
hard  breathing,  whispers,  and  low-toned  remarks.  Cap 
tain  Noles worth  was  not  called. 

Mr.  Urston  was  indignant  at  the  listening  which  Gilpin 
confessed  to,  and  which  the  latter  justified  by  the  grounds 
of  suspicion  existing  against  Mrs.  Calloran,  at  least. 
The  Stipendiary  Magistrate  took  a  new  view  of  the  case 
at  this  point :  "  That,  being  the  trusted  depositary  of  jus- 


202  THE  NEW  PKIEST. 

tice,  he  had  consulted  the  convictions  of  the  community 
in  entering  upon  this  Investigation ;  but  that,  as  impor 
tant  witnesses  for  the  crown  were  absent,  and  the  pris 
oners  at  the  bar  asserted  their  own  innocence,  he  judged 
it  best,  employing  that  discretion  which  the  crown  and 
nation  necessarily  bestowed  upon  the  administrators  of 
the  Law,  to  postpone  the  farther  examination  for  one 
calendar  month  ;  in  the  mean  time  binding  over  the  pris 
oners  at  the  bar  to  keep  the  peace  with  sufficient 
sureties." 

Mr.  Urston  very  pertinently  suggested  that  "until 
some  sort  of  show  of  evidence  appeared  against  them, 
it  was  unreasonable  to  treat  them  formally  as  suspected 
persons ;  and  why  they  were  to  be  bound  over  to  keep 
the  peace,  he  could  not  understand." 

The  magistrate  explained  that  "'keeping  the  peace* 
was  merely  a  legal  expression;  the  object  being  to 
prevent  prisoners  from  escaping.  He  would  say  fifty 
pounds  each,  for  Mr.  Urston  and  his  son ;  and  would  con 
sider  them  responsible  for  the  appearance  of  Mrs.  Cal- 
loran.  The  day  to  which  he  had  ac^journed  the  court," 
he  said,  "  would  be  appreciated  by  the  persons  chiefly  in 
terested  ;  it  was  the  fifth  from  that  of  the  Exaltation  of 
the  Holy  Cross,  and  following  that  of  St.  Lambert, 
Bishop  and  Martyr.  In  consideration  of  the  result  of 
the  patient  and  deliberate  investigation  which  had  afforded 
him  peculiar  gratification,  he  would  himself  be  responsible 
for  the  usual  costs." 

The  Minister  offered  himself  as  surety,  and  was  at 
once  accepted. 

Gilpin,  on  getting  into  the  open  air,  as  he  did  very 
speedily,  surrounded  by  the  open-mouthed  and  eager 
public,  did  not  prevent  himself  from  exclaiming,  (while 


AN  OFFICIAL  EXAMINATION.  203 

he  looked  flushed  and  chagrined,)  "  Well,  if  that  isn't 
law,  with  a  tail  to  un ! " 

An  irreverent  voice  from  among  the  public  (strongly 
resembling  Billy  Bow's)  asserted  that  "The  King  (ef 
'twas  the  king  'isself  that  doned  it)  might  as  well  take  a 
squid  or  a  torn-cod  for  a  magistrate,  as  some  'e'd  amade," 
and  then  proposed  "  three  cheers  for  Mr.  Charles  Gulpin, 
Constable  of  his  majesty  in  this  harbor  and  the  neighbor 
ing  parts." 

The  cheers  were  begun  lustily,  though  at  Gilpin's  men 
tion  of  Skipper  George's  loss,  they  broke  off,  and  just  as 
they  were  dying  away,  the  door  of  the  Magistrate's  house 
opened,  and  he  appeared,  looking  from  side  to  side,  and 
with  a  modesty  that  sate  gracefully  upon  dignity  and 
authority,  said  that  "  Words  would  fail  him  to  express  his 
sense  of  the  generous  confidence  of  the  people  of  New 
foundland  ;  that  he  was  glad  that  his  humble  efforts  had 
met  the  applause  of  his  fellow-subjects,  which  was  next 
to  the  award  of  an  approving  conscience.  He  looked 
with  confidence  to  the  approval  of  his  sovereign.  In 
conclusion,  he  begged  all  present  to  partake  of  a  little 
coffee,  which  he  had  given  orders  to  have  prepared." 

"  Three  cheers  for  'e's  woshup,  the  Sti-pendery  of 
Peterport " ;  cried  the  voice  again,  "  and  may  the  King 
soon  be  so  well  plased  to  put  un  in  a  berth  better  fittun 
to  his  debilities ! "  Over  this  there  was  more  subdued 
laughter  than  shouting. 


Meantime  the  sad  loss  was  just  the  same,  and  just  where 
it  was.  The  noble  old  father  whom  they  had  seen  bearing  it 
like  a  hero  a  few  hours  before,  had  carried  home  a  heavy 


204  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

load ;  the  gentle  mother  was  heart-stricken ;  the  whole 
company  of  neighbors,  the  moment  they  got  away  from 
the  examination  into  the  open  air, — like  those  who  had 
not  been  at  the  Magistrate's, — bore  a  share  of  the  sor 
row. 

Billy  Bow  and  others  staid  to  share  Mr.  Naughton's 
hospitality;  but  Jesse  Hill  and  Isaac  Maffen  went 
silently  away  in  one  direction,  Skipper  Charlie  moodily 
in  another,  and  many  more  dispersed. 

— "  I  wish  they'd  appoint  Parson  Wellon,  as  they  do 
at  home,"  said  Gilpin,  as  he  went  along  by  himself. 

"  And  I  hope  they'll  just  let  parsons  be  parsons,  and 
magistrates  magistrates,"  said  a  voice  behind. 

"  I  didn't  know  your  reverence  was  so  near ; "  said 
the  constable  ;  "  but  I  wish  they'd  do  something." 

Captain  Nolesworth,  having  had  no  opportunity  of  de 
livering  his  testimony,  went  back  to  Bay-Harbor  with 
the  intention  of  making  his  affidavit  there,  before  he 
sailed.  It  was  to  be  to  the  effect  that  he  saw  three  females 
in  the  punt  leaving  the  Worrell ;  that  one  of  them  was 
supported  as  if  sick,  and  that  there  seemed  to  be  a  fear 
or  strange  unwillingness  to  be  neared,  and  that  a  male 
voice,  (as  he  judged,  of  some  one  having  authority,) 
called  out  to  "  Keep  on  !  Keep  on  !  Don't  stop  !  " 

This  was  to  be  the  substance  of  the  captain's  evidence, 
as  he  detailed  it,  walking  up  the  harbor.  He  pronounced 
at  the  same  time  an  opinion  upon  the  magistrate,  some 
what  enigmatical,  as  follows : — 

"  Mr.  Naughton  '11  live  a  good  while,  sir,  I  think,  if  he 
doesn't  meet  with  an  accident ;  that  sort  most  generally 
does." 

The  reader  may  take  the  captain's  speculations  as  to 
the  stipendiary's  longevity,  at  what  he  pleases,  and  may 


AN  OFFICIAL  EXAMINATION.  205 

estimate  the  captain's  evidence  as  he  thinks  fit;  but  Capt. 
Nolesworth  himself  gave  his  opinion,  as  follows  : — 

"  Depend  upon  it,  sir,  if  that  punt  is  followed  up,  you'll 
follow  her  up.  I  wish  I  could  stay  to  see  it  out ;  but  I 
expect  to  be  off  to-morrow.  If  I'd  known  enough  tother 
night,  I'd  have  known  more  of  that  punt,  one  way  or  an 
other." 

"  It  won't  stop  where  it  is,"  said  the  Minister ;  "  higher 
authorities  will  take  it  up." 

"  It  wont  be  amiss  to  lend  a  hand  and  help  along 
justice,  I  think,  at  any  rate,"  said  the  captain. 

The  Parson  turned  aside  and  went  in  at  Mrs.  Barre's 
house. 


206  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

AN    OLD    SMUGGLER. 

fN  T  was  not  long  after  the  magistratual  examination 
was  completed,  before  the  constable  made  his  ap 
pearance  at  Mr.  Wellon's  door,  followed  by  Jesse 
and  a  company. 

"  Please,  Mr.  Wellon,"  said  he,  "  here's  a  bit  o'  some 
thing  Jesse's  brought ;  Skipper  George  found  un  in  the 
path  by  his  house,  this  mornin'.  That's  what  made  un 
take  it  so  hard  not  findin'  her  at  Mr.  Urston's  to-day, 
I'll  go  bail." 

"  'E  was  laayun  jes  this  w'y,  sir,"  said  Jesse ;  ("  so 
Uncle  George  told  I,)  wi'  'e's  broadside  to,  an'  a  string 
fast  to  un,  'e  said,  otherw'ys  Uncle  George  wouldn'  ha' 
tookt  notus  to  un,  'e  said,  (didn'  um  Izik  ?)  an'  the  string 
cotch  'e's  foot,  sir." 

The  thing  was  a  chip,  smoothed  on  all  sides,  and  bear 
ing  an  inscription,  rude  and  illegible  enough,  but  which 
Jesse  repeated  very  glibly  in  his  own  English. 
"YER  MEAD  IS  SAFE  ANF." 
It  was  determined  that  the  bit  of  wood  was  an  oar- 
blade,  and  that  the  meaning  was, 

"  Tour  maid  is  safe  enough" 

Gilpin  dismissed  the  fishermen  and  went,  as  he  had 
been  desired,  into  Mr.  Wellon's  study. 


AN  OLD   SMUGGLER.  207 

The  writing  upon  the  chip  was  not  the  only  literary 
effort  to  be  scrutinized.  There  had  been  left  at  the 
Minister's  door,  during  the  night,  a  bit  of  paper  on  which 
(the  handwriting  being  better  than  the  spelling  or  syntax) 
was  written  as  follows : — 

"  Thers  som  prodstins  bisen  about  sarchen  that's  not  to 
Gud  is  niver  thafe  ar  smuglar  Emunx  thim  id  lik  to  no 
Ef  al  tels  bes  thru — plen  Spakun." 

Gilpin  made  his  way  through  this  much  more  readily 
than  Mr.  Wellon  had  done,  smiling  at  the  word  "  Emunx" 
which  he  said  "  was  one  way  o'  spellin'  it \" 

What  the  writer  meant  to  have  written,  it  was  con 
cluded,  was, — 

"  There's  some  Protestants  busying  about  searching, 
that's  not  too  good.  Is  (there)  never  (a)  thief  or  smug 
gler  amongst  them,  Id  like  to  know, — if  all  tales  bes  true  ? 
— Plain  Speaking." 

Gilpin  said,  "  It  was  easy  enough  to  see  what  that 
meant;  it  meant  Ladford,  who  fished  with  Skipper 
George,  and  who  was  said  to  have  been  a  wild  and  des 
perate  fellow  years  ago,  and  to  have  a  price  on  his  head. 
He  had  been  very  active  in  the  search ;  a  quiet  man  that 
kept  back,  as  Mr.  Wellon  no  doubt  had  noticed,  on  Saturday. 
But  if  ever  a  man  had  repented  in  this  world,  Ladford 
had  repented,  Gilpin  believed,  and  he  had  been  a  great 
many  years  in  the  country.  Withal  he  was  the  very 
handiest  man  in  the  Bay;  could  work  a  frigate,  Gilpin 
believed,  single-handed,  and  twirl  her  round  in  her  own 
length. 

"  As  for  Skipper  George's  daughter,  everybody  knew 
that  Ladford  considered  her  as  an  angel,  or  something 
more  than  earthly ;  and  it  was  no  more  to  be  thought  that 
he'd  harm  her,  than  that  her  own  father  would.  There 


208  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

was  something  between  Ladford  and  Skipper  George; 
but  whether  there  was  a  relationship,  or  what,  nobody 
knew." 

This  was  Gilpin's  story ;  and  with  what  Mr.  Wellon 
had  heard  before,  determined  him  to  find  out  Ladford  and 
talk  with  him ;  to  give  the  letter  to  the  magistrate  just 
then,  was  not  thought  likely  to  further  the  ends  of  justice; 
nor  was  it  thought  advisable  to  mention  it. 

Captain  Nolesworth's  opinion,  about  the  punt,  seemed 
well  worth  attending  to ;  and  it  was  determined,  if  possible, 
to  follow  it  up.  Messrs.  Worner  &  Co.'s  head  clerk  had 
expressed  a  willingness,  on  behalf  of  the  house,  to  put 
down  their  names  for  fifty  pounds  towards  one  hundred,  to 
be  offered  as  reward  for  finding  the  lost  maiden, — or  one 
half  of  fifty  pounds  for  finding  her  body ;  and  it  was 
understood  that  the  other  merchants  of  the  place  (includ 
ing  Mr.  O'Rourke,)  would  make  up  the  full  sum.  Un 
doubtedly  Government  would  take  it  up,  if  the  local 
magistrates  could  not  do  any  thing  ;  and  whatever  facts,  if 
any,  should  come  out,  implicating  any  persons  in  the  guilt 
of  kidnapping  or  abduction,  could  be  laid  before  the 
Grand  Jury.  Ladford's  house,  on  the  southern  side  of 
Indian  Point,  was  the  worst  there, — and  scarcely  a  house. 
Ladford,  himself,  was  of  middle  size,  or  more,  and  up 
right,  except  his  head.  He  had  a  high,  smooth  forehead ; 
deep-set  eyes,  looking  as  if  their  fires  were  raked  up ; 
slender  nose,  and  thin  cheeks  and  lips ; — the  whole  face 
tanned  by  life-long  exposure  to  the  weather. 

Beside  a  battered  "  sou'-wester,"  thrown  backward,  his 
dress  was  made  up  of  a  shirt  of  bread-bag-stuff,  sewed 
with  round  twine,  in  even  sailmaker's  stitches,  and  clean ; 
and  of  trowsers  cut  out  of  tanned  sails,  and  sewed  as 
neatly  as  the  shirt.  His  feet  were  bare. 


AN  OLD   SMUGGLER.  209 

"  IVe  come  upon  some  private  business  with  you,"  said 
the  Minister ; — Ladford  started.  The  Minister,  noticing 
it,  said :  "  but  I'm  not  an  officer ;  you  needn't  be  afraid 
of  me." 

"  I  oughtn't,  sir,  surely,  of  a  Minister,"  said  Ladford. 

"  No  ;  and  needn't.  You  see  I  know  something  of  your 
case ;  and  we  should  have  known  each  other,  if  I  could 
have  found  you  before ;  for  I've  been  here  two  or  three 
times." 

As  he  mentioned  his  fruitless  visits,  a  startling — most 
repulsive — leer  just  showed  itself  in  Ladford's  face ;  but 
it  disappeared,  as  suddenly  and  wholly,  as  a  monster  that 
has  come  up,  horrid  and  hideous,  to  the  surface  of  the 
sea,  and  then  has  sunk  again,  bodily,  into  the  dark  Deep ; 
and  is  gone,  as  if  it  had  never  come,  except  for  the  fear 
and  loathing  that  it  leaves  behind. — This  face,  after  that 
look,  had  nothing  repulsive  in  it,  but  was  only  the  more 
subdued  and  sad. 

There  was  a  short  silence  ;  and  then  Ladford  spoke  : — 

"  Some  men,"  said  he,  "  mus'n't  keep  upon  their  form  ; 
for  it  won't  do  for  them  to  be  found  by  every  one ;  but 
I'm  sorry  you  came  for  nothing,  sir ;  I'd  have  been  here 
if  I'd  known  you  meant  it." 

The  Minister  took  the  anonymous  letter  from  his  pocket, 
and  read  it. 

"  There ! "  said  he,  "  that's  what  I  came  about ;  but 
I  come  as  a  Minister,  you  know,  and  therefore  as  a 
friend." 

"  I  believe  it,  sir,"  said  Ladford,  who  had  been  looking 
in  his  face,  and  now  bowed.  "  I  don't  blame  any  man 
for  thinking  ill  of  me,  or  speaking  ill  of  me  ; — I'm  a  poor 
fellow ; — but  this  does  me  wrong.  Why,  sir !  it  may 
sound  strange,  but  I'd  give  my  life  to  find  that  girl ! 

VOL.    I.  14 


210  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

There's  only  one  thing,  besides,  that  I  care  much  about, 
now  ; — my  line's  nearly  paid  out,  sir." 

As  he  spoke  thus,  implying  a  presentiment  of  his  own 
near  death,  he  looked  fixedly  at  the  Minister,  as  if  to  see 
what  impression  the  words  made.  Then  hastily  added, 
anticipating  the  answer, — "  Those  things  are  all  as  God 
wills ;  but  it  comes  in  on  me,  like  an  east  wind.  Now, 
what  can  I  say  to  you,  sir  ?  I  wouldn't  mind  telling  all 
my  story  to  you,  some  day,  if  you'd  care  to  hear  it ;  but 
after  that  letter,  I  must  go  off,  for  a  while." 

"  Oh !  but  you  needn't  go  away,"  said  the  Minister, 
"being  innocent." 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  I  must ;  I  won't  stay  away,  but  for  a 
while  ;  and  I  can  do  something,  perhaps,  all  the  time.  I 
know  a  place  to  look  in.  You'll  be  like  to  see  me,  or  hear 
from  me,  before  long." 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  your  story,"  said  the  Minister. 
"  I  suppose  your  life  has  been  a  pretty  dark  one ;  but 
you  repent." 

"  It  is  a  bad  story,  I  confess,  sir ;  thirty-six  years  of 
smuggling  and  all  deviltry. — That's  a  good  while !  " 

"  Not  so  long  as  God's  mercy,  to  one  who  repents  and 
believes,"  said  the  Minister;  whose  very  lips  Ladford 
watched,  much  as  a  deaf  man  does. 

"  And  one  thing  I  can  truly  say : — In  all  my  life  I 

never,  knowingly,  hurt  man,  woman,  or  child :  but 

once  !  but  ONCE  !  and  that  was  a  bad  '  once ! ' — Ah  !  poor 
Susan ! " — As  Ladford  said  this,  he  gave  way,  without 
restraint;  he  then  continued,  (more  to  himself  than  to  his 
hearer,)  "  I'd  give  my  life  to  find  this  girl,  if  it  was  only 
to  help  make  up  for  that !  " 

"  We  can't  make  up  for  one  thing,  with  another,"  said 
the  Minister,  gently ;  "  but  we  can  repent,  and  plead  the 
Blood  of  Christ." 


AN  OLD   SMUGGLER.  211 

"  Ay,  sir !  Thank  God,  I  know  it ;  and  I've  been 
working  away,  on  that  course,  these  years  back. — But, 
sir,  I  was  brought  up  to  wickedness,  for  a  trade.  You'd 
have  thought  they  were  a  set  of  devils,  out  of  Hell ! 
Law-breaking,  Sabbath-breaking,  oath-breaking,  heart 
breaking,  swearing,  drinking,  fighting, — thirty-six  years  I 
was  among  all  that,  and  more ;  shamed  by  it,  and  hating 
it,  till  I  got  away  from  it. — Then,  after  all,  to  feel  a  devil 
inside  of  you,  that  you've  got  in  a  chain ;  and  to  feel  him 
climb  up  against  the  sides  of  you,  in  here,  before  you 
know,  and  glare,  with  his  devilish  look,  out  of  your  eyes, 
and  put  his  dirty  paw  and  pull  up  the  corners  of  your 
mouth,  and  play  with  the  tackle  in  your  throat,  and  make 
the  words  come  out  as  you  didn't  mean,  and  then  to  feel 
that  this  fellow's  growth  is  out  of  your  own  life  ! " 

Mr.  Wellon,  as  he  looked  at  the  man,  during  this 
speech,  could  see,  in  a  sort  of  fearful  pantomime,  the 
struggle  started  and  stifled  between  the  poor  fellow  and 
his  devilish  beastly  familiar. 

"  But  you  do  get  him  down.  Christ  will  trample  him 
under  foot.  The  more  you  need  it,  the  more  help  you 
get ;  '  He  giveth  more  grace,'  "  said  the  Minister  of  God, 
pouring  out  encouragement  to  him. 

"  I  haven't  been  a  man,"  said  the  poor  fellow,  showing, 
by  the  very  words,  that  he  had  never  lost  his  manhood ; 
"  I  never  was  a  son,  nor  a  brother,  nor  a  friend ." 

"  Were  you  ever  married  ?  "  asked  the  Minister. 

"  No  sir  ;  never.  I  ought  to  have  been,  and  meant  to 
have  been ;  but  I  wasn't. — There's  one  that  knows  that 
story,  if  he  choose  to  tell  it ; "  and  saying  this,  Ladford 
looked  at  the  Parson  humbly,  as  if  waiting  for  further 
question,  and  then  proceeded  :  "  It's  just  about  that  part 
of  my  life  I'll  tell, — if  you'll  please  to  hear ;  'twas  the 


212  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

happiest  and  'twas  the  most  terrible  sad,  and  mournful  in 
it  all.  And  it'll  come  in  very  well  just  now.  Per 
haps,  you'll  know  me  the  better  when  you've  heard  it.  I 
tried  to  do  my  duty  like  a  man,  to  one  thing,  and  there's 
all  that's  left  of  it,"  taking  the  black  ribbon  out  of  a 
Bible, "  It's  all  right, — it's  all  right !  " 

Many  well-bred  people  would  have  been  content  with 
seeing  this  poor  man's  relic,  and  would  have  kept  their 
touch  and  smell  far  off  from  it ;  but  Mr.  Wellon,  with  the 
senses  of  a  gentleman,  had  a  man's  heart,  and  was  a  min 
ister  of  Christ.  He  saw  that  the  owner  wished  to  lay  it 
hi  his  hand,  and  he  held  out  his  hand  for  it  and  took  it. 

"  That  riband,"  the  story  went  on,  "  used  to  be  about  a 

little  boy's  neck ;  a  pretty  little  fellow  : like  this  Lucy ; 

very  like ! — It  isn't  likely  that  he'd  have  been  a  wonder 
ful  scholar,  like  her,  but  oh !  as  pretty  a  little  fellow  as 
ever  God  made  to  grow  in  the  world.  He  was  so 
straight ! — and  he  stood  right  up  and  looked  in  your  face ; 
as  much  as  to  say, ;  Do  you  know  God  ?  Well,  I  belong 
to  Him.'  There ! There !  " — said  poor  Ladford,  over 
come  with  what  he  had  been  saying  and  thinking,  and 
falling  down  on  himself, — his  breast  on  his  Bible  and  his 
head  between  his  knees — and  giving  two  heaves  of  his 
body,  forward  and  back.  He  then  raised  himself  up 
again ;  and,  as  his  hearer,  of  course,  said  nothing,  he 
began  again,  when  he  was  ready :  "  His  hair  was  as 
thick  and  solid,  as  if't  was  cut  out  of  stone  ;  and  his  lip  had 
such  a  curl  to  it,  just  like  the  crest  to  a  wave ; — you 
know  Lucy's, — it  was  much  the  same.  I  can't  tell  you  his 
eyes.  You  could  look  into  'em.  and  wouldn't  think  there 
was  any  bottom  to  'em.  It  seemed  as  if  you  could  look 

miles  into  'em. Oh !  that  boy  !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  such 

an  intense  sort  of  way  as  might  have  fixed  one  of  the 


AN  OLD    SMUGGLER.  213 

trees  into  listening,  and  then  suddenly  appealed  to  his 
visitor : — 

"  You're  not  tired  of  hearing,  Mr.  Wellon  ?  " 

"No,  no." 

"  Oh  !  that !  He's  gone  !  and  'twas  this 

hand !  this  very  hand !  " 

The  voice  was  one  of  sorrow  and  not  of  remorse  ;  but, 
having  in  inind  the  wild  life  that  this  man  had  led,  and, 
perhaps,  having  his  heart  full  of  the  child  that  had  seemed, 
a  moment  before,  to  be  playing  close  by  them,  Mr.  Wellon 
cried  out — 

"  Why,  what  did  you  do  to  him  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  no !  not  so  bad  as  that. — Not  worse  than  I  am, 
though,"  said  Ladford,  the  indignant  voice  changing  to 
self-reproach;  "but  I  couldn't  have  hurt  him,  unless  I 
was  drunk,  and  I  never  was  drunk  in  my  life." 

"  Whose  child  was  it  ?  "  asked  the  clergyman. 

The  smuggler  looked  at  him,  with  a  start,  and  an 
swered  instantly, — 

"  He  was  God's  child  !  " 

Having  waited  for  any  further  question,  and  none  being 
asked,  he  again  went  on  where  he  had  left  off: — 

"  I  took  him  to  the  church  myself,  on  this  arm,  and 
two  real  good  Christians  were  godfather  and  godmother, 
for  the  poor  mother's  sake.  I  was  over  in  the  far  corner ; 
she  wasn't  there.  I  didn't  carry  him  back  from  church. 
I  wouldn't  have  opened  my  arms  to  take  him  in  any  more 
than  if  he'd  been  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  in  a  manner. 
They  did  love  him  dearly — poor  motherless,  fatherless 
darling ! " 

"  Why,  what  became  of  the  mother  ?  " 

"  Oh !  she  died.  Naturally,  she  died"  answered  the 
smuggler,  shaking  his  head  and  looking  down.  "  I  can't 


214  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

talk  about  her,  sir — but  the  boy  growed ;  and  the  sea,  that 
had  had  so  much  wickedness  done  on  it,  got  that  boy." 

"  I  thought  he  never  came  near  it,"  said  the  Parson, 
much  as  if  he  thought  that  he  could  save  it  all  yet,  and 
keep  the  pretty  boy,  by  thrusting  in  an  impossibility  made 
of  words. 

Poor  Ladford  looked  mournfully  at  him,  and  wistfully, 
almost  as  if  he,  too,  half  hoped  that  it  might  not  all  be  as 
it  was,  and  then,  glancing  at  the  black  ribbon,  continued 
his  story : — 

"  He  never  did,  sir ;  but  it  got  him,  just  as  much  as  if 
it  had  a  great  rope  of  seaweed  fast  to  him  and  dragged 
him  in.  One  day  when  I  was  going  down  the  cliff,  think 
ing  of  nothing,  what  should  be  there,  like  a  beautiful  bird 
or  a  butterfly  on  the'  path,  but  that  handsome,  handsome 
boy !  I  was  confused  and  mazed  like,  I  suppose.  It 
was  so  strange  to  see  him  there ;  I  don't  know  if  he'd 
ever  been  told  not  to  come  to  the  sea  ;  but  he'd  been  kept 
about  home ;  and  when  I  saw  him,  if  I'd  only  once  had 
the  thought  to  speak  to  him ; — but  I  hadn't.  I  was  fright 
ened,  I  suppose,  and  I  put  out  my  hand  to  save  him — just 
this  way — and  that's  ah1.  That  was  the  last  ever  was 
known  of  that  beautiful  child,  alive.  There's  my  mark," 
said  Ladford,  showing  the  lower  half  of  his  left  arm  with 
a  knob  on  it,  where  it  might  have  been  broken. 

"  Ah  !  that's  a  bad  break.  That  was  broken  in  more 
than  one  place,  or  it  hadn't  good  surgery,"  said  Mr. 
Wellon. 

"  You  know  about  surgery,  sir  ?  "  said  the  smuggler. 
"  It  was  broken  more  than  once ;  but  I  think  the  surgeon 
did  his  best.  I  went  over  the  cliff,  too." 

"  And  the  child  was  lost  and  you  saved,  though  all  the 
probability  was  the  other  way." 


AN  OLD   SMUGGLER.  215 

"  Yes,  indeed.  They  say  I  gave  a  great  spring,  like  a 
madman,  and  cleared  every  thing,  (except  what  did  this, 
and  nobody  could  tell  what  that  was,)  and  he!  he  went 
right  down  to  his  death.  There  was  a  rose-bush  all 
there,  where  they  buried  him,  and  his  spirit  and  life  and 
all  his  dear,  blessed  beauty  was  gone  away  out  of  the 
world ;  and  whether  it  took  something  out  of  my  eyes  I 
don't  know ;  but  there  isn't  such  a  brightness  on  the 
leaves,  or  grass,  or  any  where.  I  saved  that  bit  of  rib 
and  ;  it  went  down  with  me  and  came  up  with  me. — • 
Now,  sir,"  said  Ladford,  suddenly  gathering  himself  up, 
"  I  want  to  get  this  girl  of  George  Barbury's.  It's  a  good 
thing  that  it  wasn't  me  that  went  down ;  ay,  it's  a  merci 
ful  thing,  that  it  wasn't  me  taken  away  without  e'er  a 
hand  or  a  word  raised  up  ! — But,  Parson  Wellon,  if 
there's  a  way  on  earth,  we  must  find  George  Barbury's 
daughter.  God  only  knows  what  I'd  give  to  be  the  one 
to  find  her ! — I  owe  George  Barbury  life's  blood,  and 
more  ! — though  he's  forgiven  me." 

The  Minister  waited,  but  Ladford  added  nothing. 

"  Then  that  brought  you  up  ?  " 

"  I  was  brought  up  at  last,  but  it  was  years  first.  I 
stopped  many  a  bad  thing  being  done  by  shipmates  or 
landsmen  after  that,  and  at  last  I  knocked  right  off.  I 
had  a  house  and  a  garden  and  a  fishing  boat,  and  I  meant 
to  sell  the  whole  of  'em,  and  give  away  the  money  to 
something  good ;  but  they  got  out  a  warrant  against  me, 
long  after  I'd  given  up,  and  just  when  I  was  going  to  try 
to  do  some  good  after  all  my  bad,  and  so  I  got  away,  and 
came  off;  and  the  neighbors  know  what  I've  been  since 
I've  been  in  this  country." 

"  You  haven't  given  over  honest  labor,  I  hope,  now 
that  you  are  repenting  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Wellon,  his  question 


216  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

being  one  that  might  be  suggested  very  naturally,  by  the 
appearance  of  the  former  smuggler's  house  and  dress. 

"  No,  sir ;  I  do  a  man's  work,"  answered  the  smuggler ; 
"  perhaps  more." 

"  But  you  don't  drink  " — 

"  And  yet  I  live  in  that  wretched  place,  and  dress  like 
a  convict,  you  might  say,"  answered  Ladford  with  a  quiet, 
sad  smile,  drawing  the  contrast  in  words,  that  the  Minis 
ter  had,  most  likely,  in  his  thought. 

"  For  a  man's  work  you  can  get  a  man's  wages,  can't 
you?" 

"  That  wouldn't  follow  in  my  case,"  said  the  poor  exile ; 
"but  I  do." 

Mr.  Wellon  understood  the  sentence  and  replied — 
"  But  certainly,  any  body  that  employed  you  would  pay 
you?" 

"  Not  so  surely ;  but  I'm  laying  up  wages  in  one  place, 
I  hope.  I  live,  and  all  I  can  do  in  a  day's  work,  is  for 
others,  and  I  hope  I'm  laying  something  by." 

Just  as  Mr.  Wellon  was  leaving  him,  a  voice  was 
heard  from  above,  in  the  little  woods,  and  Ladford  an 
swered — 

"'Is.  I'se  a  comin'.  I'll  be  with  'ee  in  short,  and 
bear  a  hand  about  that  chumley."  And  so  entirely  had 
he  taken  the  words  and  way  of  the  country,  that  he 
seemed  almost  another  man. 

His  story  had  not  been  a  very  complete  one ;  but 
there  seemed  to  be  a  tie  that  bound  Ladford  to  Lucy's 
father,  or  herself,  through  that  boy. 


TWO  WHO  HAVE  MET  BEFORE.  217 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

AN    INTERVIEW    OF   TWO    WHO    HAVE    MET   BEFORE. 

the  whirl  of  happenings  and  doings  we  must  not 
too  long  forget  some  of  our  chief  characters.  Fan 
ny  Dare,  who  saw  most  of  Mrs.  Barre, — indeed 
any  one  who  knew  her,  could  not  but  see  the  change 
which  a  little  while  had  made  in  her;  for  she  was 
changed.  There  were  tears  oftener  in  her  eyes  now 
than  before ;  and  they  were  formerly  not  seldom  there. 
Her  cheek  was  something  thinner  and  more  pale  ;  there 
was  a  fixed  and  intent  look  in  her  eye  when  she  was 
listening  to  another,  or  was  in  thought ;  and  when  she 
spoke, — if  her  thoughts  were  not  apparently  abstracted, — 
her  words  came  so  few  and  strong,  that  it  seemed  as  if 
all  she  did  were  done  with  a  great  might.  Yet  she  was 
gentle  and  tender. 

There  was  a  wakefulness  about  her,  as  if  she  were  ever 
fearing  or  expecting  something ;  and  she  had  that  expres 
sion,  which,  to  the  best  hearts,  is  most  touching  in  the 
human  face  ;  not  of  asking  pity,  but  of  needing  it.  Her 
eye  grew  fuller,  as  her  cheek  became  more  thin  and  pale. 
It  is  very  touching  to  see  one  to  whom  life  is  so  earnest 
and  serious  a  thing,  as  it  evidently  was  to  Mrs.  Barre ; 
(there  was  no  trifling,  or  play,  or  idleness  with  her ;)  and 
it  was  quite  as  touching  to  see  how  unforgettingly  she 
kept  her  burden  from  bearing  on  the  young  life  of  little 
Mary. 


218  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

It  was  on  Monday  evening  that  she  sat  in  her  chamber, 
whose  window  looked  to  the  west,  and  gazed  upward  into 
the  sky.  Her  smooth  forehead,  whose  .clear  brows  were 
bared  by  the  falling-back  of  her  dark  hair,  and  her  large 
eyes  fixed,  made  her  a  fit  figure  for  the  silent  time. 

Miss  Dare  sat  near  her. 

Before  them  both  hung  one  bright  star,  in  air ;  and  on 
the  earth  was  the  still  land  and  water ;  and  far  off,  the 
inland  hills,  which,  at  this  distance,  and  in  this  waning 
light,  and  standing  in  a  land  as  unknown  as  if  it  were  yet 
undiscovered,  look  like  a  rim  of  some  happy,  hidden  val- 
ley. 

Mrs.  Barre  had  never  opened  her  mystery,  further,  to 
her  friend  ;  nor  of  course,  had  Fanny  sought  to  look  into 
it ;  only,  that  there  was  something,  was  understood  be 
tween  them. 

Mrs.  Barre  broke  the  thoughtful  silence,  saying, 
"  Sometimes  what  I  am  striving  and  hoping  for  seems 
as  hopeless  and  unattainable  as  the  star  that  the  child 
reaches  after."  (Such  was  the  bright  star  shining  down 
to  them,  mildly  as  it  had  shone  so  many — countless 
many — nights  since  first  this  world  knew  darkness.) 
"  And  yet,"  she  added,  "  auguries  are  nothing.  The  faith 
of  our  best  wisdom,  and  clearest  conscience,  and  simplest 
trust,  is  right ! " 

So  she  spoke,  in  faith ;  and  so  God  heard,  who  orders 
all  things.  There  are,  to  us,  no  gates, — the  "geminae 
somni  portae," — through  one  of  which  fleet  disregarded 
hopes  and  prayers  unheeded ;  while,  through  the  other, 
go  glad  prayers  accepted  and  bright  hopes,  to  their  fulfil 
ment  ;  and  yet  in  our  day,  as  of  old,  one  strong  wish  forces 
its  way  through  rugged,  rocky  soil,  grows  up  from  sturdy 
root,  and  comes  to  ripeness  ;  another  falls  and  leaves  not 


TWO   WHO  HAVE  MET  BEFORE.  219 

a  wreck  of  froth  upon  the  ground,  where  stood  a  perfect 
globe  of  loveliest  hues. 

While  she  was  speaking,  a  man  came  across  the  little 
open  green  towards  the  house.  He  was  of  an  unfamiliar 
look  and  unlike  the  harbor-planters,  but  he  came  straight 
forward,  turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  and  not 
hesitating,  up  to  the  gate  and  through  the  gate,  to  the 
door,  and  there  he  had  a  message  for  the  lady  of  the 
house  ;  for  Mrs.  Bray,  as  he  called  her. 

Mrs.  Barre  was  much  agitated,  and  pressed  Fanny's 
hand,  as  she  rose  to  go  down  to  him,  and  leaned  against 
the  stairs  in  the  hall,  as  she  stood  to  hear  his  message. 

The  man  was  an  uncourtly  messenger.  "  A  Catholic 
clergyman,"  he  said,  "  desired  his  compliments,  and  would 
like  to  meet  Mrs.  Bray  at  Mr.  Henran's,  at  any  time  she 
might  please  to  set." 

The  lady's  voice  testified  to  her  agitation,  as  she  an 
swered,  "  I  shall  be  happy  to  meet  such  a  person  as  you 
speak  of;  but,  of  course,  I  cannot  make  appointments  out 
of  my  own  house." 

"  It's  a  Catholic  praste,"  said  the  messenger,  almost 
gruffly. 

"  Who  is  he  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  That  I  don't  know  any  thing  about,  ma'am ;  I  was  to 
say  '  a  clergyman.'  " 

"  And  what  is  your  own  name  ?  " 

"  Froyne  is  my  name." 

"  Yes  ;  then  have  the  kindness  to  say  that  I  am  at 
home  now,  and  expect  to  be  at  home  to-morrow,  till  three 
o'clock." 

The  man  turned  on  his  heel,  and  with  an  ungracious 
or  awkward  ceremony  departed. 

Mrs.  Barre,  after  standing  a  few  moments  where  she 


220  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

was,  went  up  stairs  to  her  seat  opposite  the  bright  star, 
taking  Fanny's  hand  and  holding  it.  Presently  she  spoke 
of  the  appointment  she  had  just  made,  and  hoped  that 
Fanny  Dare  might  be  in  the  house  when  the  meeting 
took  place.  They  both  started,  as  again  a  man's  dark 
figure  came  upon  the  green ;  Mrs.  Barre,  clasping  her 
hands,  turned  away  to  the  wall. 

A  knock  was  heard ;  not  long  nor  loud,  but  even,  reg 
ular,  decided;  the  work  of  a  hand  whose  weight  was 
exactly  known. 

"  I  didn't  expect  him  to  be  on  us  so  soon,"  said  Fanny 
Dare;  "  what  shall  I  do  ?" 

"  Just  stay  here,  if  you'll  be  so  good.  Don't  go  further 
off;  there's  a  good  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Barre. 

"  But  it's  almost  the  same  thing  as  being  in  the  same 
room,"  said  Fanny,  in  a  whisper. 

Mrs.  Barre  was  too  occupied  to  answer,  and  the  servant 
announced  a  gentleman  to  see  her,  waiting  in  the  parlor 
below.  ,r,^  - 

Mrs.  Barre  came  to  the  door  of  the  room,  pale,  and 
earnest,  and  straightforward,  as  she  always  was  in  all 
things ;  but  as  she  paused  upon  the  outside,  so  on 
first  entering  the  room,  the  door  of  which  she  did  not 
shut  entirely,  she  paused,  with  her  sight  fixed  upon  the 
floor. 

When  she  raised  her  eyes,  she  found  the  gentleman 
standing  respectfully;  it  was  Father  Nicholas.  In  the 
light  of  the  candle,  which  marked  distinctly  the  well-cut 
outlines  of  his  features,  and  threw  the  deep  lines  and 
hollows  into  shadow,  he  looked  more  handsome  and 
thoughtful  than  even  by  day.  His  simple  black  dress 
was  just  as  fit,  and  seemed  as  much  to  belong  to  him  as 
his  smooth,  shining  cassock  or  soutane. 


TWO   WHO   HAVE   MET   BEFORE.  221 

"  I  have  made  a  mistake,  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Barre,  in 
stantly  possessing  herself.  "  You  do  not  wish  to  see  me, 
Mr.  Crampton  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  please ;  that  was  the  object  of  my  visit. 
I  hope  you'll  excuse  my  availing  myself  of  the  earliest 
opportunity  mentioned  to  the  messenger,  for  the  impor 
tance  of  the  business  that  brought  me.  But  I  wait  to 
know  your  inclination." 

She  satisfied  him  upon  that  point. 

"  Oh !  for  the  time,  it  is  of  less  consequence  than  it 
may  seem  to  you.  If  we  meet,  it  matters  little  to  me 
when  it  is.  Our  interview  is  not  likely  to  be  very  long, 
I  suppose.  You  may  wonder  that  I  suffer  you  to  speak 
to  me  ;  I  have  my  reason ;  and  you  know,  long  since,  that 
I  have  no  need  to  fear  you." 

To  this  the  Priest  said  nothing.  His  answer  was  to 
another  point. 

— "And  I  hope  that  any  harsh  feelings  or  injurious 
suspicions,  formed  in  other  days,  may  be  set  aside  from 
our  present  meeting,  that  what  is  said  may  take  its  tone 
and  character,  not  from  remembered  prejudice,  but  from 
present  truth  and  reason." 

"  I  permit  your  speaking  to  me,  Mr.  Crampton ;  I  may 
see  cause  to  answer.  Let  that  suffice.  I  cannot  destroy 
a  part  of  my  nature,  or  turn  a  faculty  of  my  mind  awry. 
I  cannot  forget ;  nor  can  I  misunderstand  what  I  remem 
ber,"  answered  Mrs.  Barre,  looking  steadily  at  him  with 
the  distance  of  the  room  between. 

He  stood  in  a  meek,  unobtrusive  posture,  looking  on 
the  floor. 

"I  thank  God,  I  can  forget,"  said  Father  Nicholas, 
gently. 

"  It  is  not  always  a  thing  to  be  thankful  for,"  she  an- 


222  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

swered  ;  "  some  things  ought  not,  too  easily,  to  be  for 
gotten." 

"  It  is  a  duty  to  forget  the  things  that  are  behind,  in 
going  forward  to  new  work  and  hope,"  said  the  Priest. 

"  Let  there  be  no  cant  between  us,  Mr.  Crampton.  I 
think  I  may  well  expect  you  to  speak  very  plainly,  if  you 
speak  at  all." 

"  I  cannot  lay  aside  my  priestly  character,  if  that  is 
what  you  wish.  I  speak  as  a  priest ;  I  cannot  speak 
otherwise." 

"  I  have  known  you  speak  otherwise,"  said  Mrs.  Barre. 
"  I  ask  of  you  mere  honesty." 

"  If  I  have  ever,  for  a  moment,  forgotten  that  character 
since  I  bore  it, — if  I  have  done  amiss,  or  spoken  wrongly, 
— the  mighty  force  of  second  nature  and  the  grace  of  con 
secration  have  rushed  upon  me  and  made  me  more  than 
ever  what  I  am, — a  priest." 

"  We  will  not  argue  that  point,  if  you  please.  If  you 
knew  not  what  I  know  of  you,  I  could  not  tell  it  to  you. 
What  is  your  present  business  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  come  in  any  other  character  ;  and  it  is  only 
as  a  priest  of  God  that  I  have  any  thing  to  say.  Will 
you  sit  down  ?  and  shall  we  speak  together  ?  " 

If  he  had  at  all  lost,  he  had  now  resumed,  the  manner 
of  one  accustomed  to  be  yielded  and  deferred  to. 

They  were  still  standing,  as  at  first ;  the  lady  made  no 
movement  towards  a  chair,  and  they  continued  standing. 
She,  evidently,  was  not  one  that  would  defer  to  him. 

"I  am  prepared  to  hear  you,  Mr.  Crampton,  and  to 
judge  of  what  you  say  by  its  own  merits.  Will  you  be 
good  enough  to  let  me  know  what  you  desire  of  me  ?  " 

"  What  I  shall  say,  with  your  permission,"  the  Priest 
answered,  "  will  not  depend,  for  its  effect,  upon  your  esti- 


TWO   WHO  HAVE  MET  BEFORE.  223 

mate  of  me,  or  feelings  towards  me.  I  come  not  to  speak 
of  or  for  myself,  in  any  way ;  but  first,  may  I,  in  meeting 
you  again,  after  so  long  an  interval,  be  allowed  to  ask 
about  your  little  children  ;  how  they  are  ?  " 

"  I  have  but  one,"  returned  the  mother. 

"  Ah !  is  it  so  ?  "  said  the  Priest,  with  a  deep  emphasis 
and  very  thoughtfully ;  "  you  have  lost  one  of  them  since 

you  left  the  ?  How  is  the  other  ?  I  heard  of  a 

child  of  your's  meeting  with  a  severe  accident,  some  time 
ago ;  was  it  the  one  whom  you  have  left  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  she  has  recovered,  thank  God ! " 

"  What  a  sweet,  happy  family  it  was,  three  years  ago ! " 
said  Father  Nicholas,  as  if  drawing  up  a  fair,  vanished 
island,  or  a  noble  ship,  long  foundered,  out  of  the  waste 
of  waters  ;  then  he  said,  sadly  and  thoughtfully  again,  as 
before, "  It  might  have  been  otherwise  !  "  as  if  speaking  to 
himself.  u  The  Catholic  Church  was  a  safe  harbor  !  "  he 
added,  as  if  it  were  a  sad  reflection  immediately  following 
from  what  had  just  been  said  and  thought. 

"  It  might  have  been  otherwise,  indeed !  "  she  answered. 
"  It  was  in  that '  safe  harbor '  that  my  fair  ship  went  down. 
A  '  safe  harbor ' ! — Ah  !  I  wouldn't  trust  my  dear  ones  in 
it."  Her  words  were  short  but  bitter. 

The  Priest  answered,  without  bitterness  : — 

— "  And  yet  our  enemies  allow  that  salvation  may  be 
had  among  us,  (and  you  are  no  enemy ;)  and  if  the  Cath 
olic's  belief  be  true,  what  priceless  privileges  belong  to 
those  who  are  in  and  of  the  Church ! "  This  he  said 
gently  and  sadly. 

"  For  any  thing  not  written  in  your  Bible  or  mine," 
said  she,  again,  "  I  wouldn't  give  the  snuff  of  that  can 
dle. — Will  you  oblige  me  by  coming  to  your  business  ?  " 

"  And  yet,  if  it  be  true   (what  we  are  compelled  to 


224  THE   NEW  PRIEST. 

believe)  that  there  is  no  salvation  elsewhere,"  he  an 
swered,  in  a  more  gentle  and  a  sadder  voice ;  "  if  that  be 
true !" 

"  And  if  it  be  true  what  the  Mahometan  believes ! 

Pray,  Mr.  Crampton,  what  has  your  belief,  or  his,  to  do 
with  my  salvation?  Your  believing  a  thing  does  not 
make  it  true.  Pray,  do  not  argue  theology ;  please  say 
what  else  you  have  to  say." 

"  But  suppose,"  he  pleaded  gently,  "  that  it  should  be 
true ;  and  that  one  cast  out  of  the  Church  is  cast  out  of 
God's  kingdom " 

"  So,  you  wish  to  argue ! — One  word,  then,  for  God  ! 
I  suppose  nothing  about  it ;  for  it  is  simply  not  true. 
There  are  good  rules  of  morals  in  your  Bible  as  well  as 
ours.  The  things  between  your  church  and  us  are  in 
neither,  nor  in  the  creeds.  I  have  no  fear  at  being  cast 
out  a  hundred  times  for  not  believing  them  ! " 

The  Priest  pleaded  gently,  in  answer : — 

"  And  yet  your  reasoning  is  not  quite  sound.  Suppose 
it  could  be  shown  that  we  have  other  doctrines  beside 
those  contained  in  the  Gospel ;  you  see  they  are  beside 
the  Gospel, — and  we  have  the  whole  Gospel,  too.  Ac 
cordingly,  our  enemies  are  compelled  to  grant  that  salva 
tion  may  be  had  with  us,  while  we  deny  that  it  can  be 
had  with  them.  Would  not  a  child  see  that  it  was  safer 
to  believe  even  more  than  enough,  than  not  to  believe 
enough  ?  " 

It  was  no  reasoner  of  yesterday  that  was  speaking; 
and  yet  in  Mrs.  Barre's  sad,  thoughtful  eye,  fire  flashed, 
and  her  pale,  thin  cheek  glowed,  and  her  lip  curled  with 
scorn,  as  if,  for  the  moment,  she  forgot  all  but  the  insid 
ious  reasoning. 

"  Yes,  it's  just  a  child's  argument ;  I  am  not  a  child. 


TWO  WHO  HAVE  MET  BEFORE.  225 

Your  doctrine,  Mr.  Crampton,  is  as  false  as  your  prac 
tice.  Again  you  speak  of  your  denying,  and  other  peo 
ple's  granting !  What  has  either  your  granting  or  deny 
ing  to  do  with  me  ?  I  begged  you  not  to  argue  ;  and  if 
I  permit  myself  to  answer,  it  is  for  your  good,  priest 
though  you  are ! "  (Father  Nicholas  bowed,  with  a  slight 
smile,  looking  to  the  ground.  She  looked  straight  at  the 
Priest,  and  spoke  steadily  and  strongly.)  " '  More  than 
enough  ? '  and  <  less  than  enough  ? '  What  is  true,  is 
true ;  and  what  is  not,  is  a  lie, — less  than  the  truth,  or 
more  !  '  True  Gospel,  only  something  added  ! '  Let  me 
remind  you  that  there  was  only  'something  added*  to  that 
true  wine  that  Pope  Alexander  VI.  prepared  for  his 
guests ; — it  was,  in  that  case,  a  very  little  '  something ; ' 
it  did  not,  to  the  eye,  or  taste,  or  smell,  change  the  true 
wine,  even  in  the  least  particular ;  and  yet  Pope  Alexan 
der  VI.  drinking  of  his  true  wine,  *  with  something  added,* 
died.  Remember,  that  only  a  few  words  '  beside  '  his  own 
part,  made  another  priest's  confessional  into  a  devils- 
school.  A  very  little  something  added  may  make  poison 
of  pure  wine.  The  raising  of  a  throne  in  heaven,  and 
digging  of  a  pit  in  purgatory,  are  no  small  things  in  doc 
trine,  as  sin  is  a  monstrous  thing  in  morals,  Mr.  Cramp- 
ton." 

The  Priest's  face  grew  damp,  as  some  of  the  statues  of 
his  religion  are  said  to  sweat,  portentously.  He  waited, 
as  if  to  hear  more ;  but  Mrs.  Barre  had  said  all  that  she 
intended.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  only  in  a  pained  and 
regretful  tone : — 

"  I  have  not  come  to  excite  or  weary  you  or  myself, 
with  the  discussion  of  particular  points  of  theology  ;  but  it 
seems  a  fearful  flippancy  to  speak  of  the  faith  of  the 
Catholic  Church  in  this  way !  That  very  doctrine  that 

VOL.    I.  15 


226  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

you  mentioned  last,  is  one  solemnly  established  by  the 
Church,  and  universally  accepted  by  its  members.  It  is 
one  on  which  the  tenderness  of  the  deep  heart  of  the 
Common  Mother  breaks  itself;  over  which  the  broad, 
dark,  silent  wings  of  a  dread  mystery  are  stretched ; 
before  it  the  stupendous,  unbloody  sacrifice  of  the  Lamb 
of  God  is  offered  without  ceasing ;  and  around  it  roll  the 
agony  of  prayer,  and  the  mournful,  melting  melody  of  the 
divinest  music !  Is  this  to  be  blown  away  by  the  slight 
breath  of  a  woman's  scorn  ?  " 

"  Why  not  by  a  breath,  if  it  be  but  froth  of  the  work 
ing  human  fancy  ?  "  she  answered.     "  God  has  not  re 
vealed  it ;  and  whatever  beauty  or  terror  man  may  clothe 
it  with,  cannot  make  it  any  thing  to  my  salvation,  Mr. 
Crampton, — or  to  yours." 

"  Does  it  not  occur  to  you,"  said  the  Priest,  "  what 
danger  there  is  in  thus  taking  your  soul  into  your  own 
keeping  ?  " 

As  quietly  as  a  person  swimming  with  one  hand,  she 
answered :  "  Since  God  has  put  it  into  my  keeping,  and 
said,  'work  out  your  own  salvation]  the  danger  would 
seem  to  be  in  my  committing  it  to  the  keeping  of  others." 

"  You  will  remember,"  said  the  Priest,  "  that  the  Bible 
also  says,  '  obey  your  prelates,  for  they  watch  as  to  give  an 
account  for  YOUR  SOULS.'  " 

"  Ay,  an  account  for  the  souls  lost  through  their  mis 
leading  or  neglect ;  but  '  every  one  of  us  shall  give 
account  of  himself  unto  God!'  I  shall  try  and  make 
the  two  things  go  together ;  to  '  obey  them  that  have  the 
rule  over  me]  while  I  work  out  my  own  salvation." 

"  Rejecting,"  said  Father  Nicholas,  sadly,  "  that  sacred 
body  which  alone  has  power  to  bind  and  loose,  and  in 
which  is  the  fulness  of  divine  presence  and  authority  !  " 


TWO   WHO   HAVE   MET   BEFORE.  227 

"  We  are  wasting  time,  Mr.  Crampton ;  you  can  hardly 
expect  me  to  argue  over  the  dozen  or  more  new  articles 
of  faith  added  to  the  Nicene  Creed,  or  the  crowd  of  your 
other  doctrines  not  yet  added,  that  I  know  as  thoroughly 
as  you.  Is  there  any  other  subject  upon  which  you  wish 
to  speak  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  indeed,  I  did  not  come  to  argue.  The  mind  is 
not  the  chief  seat  of  religion,  and  one  so  strong,  and  active 
and  inquiring  as  yours,  might  be  allowed  a  little  latitude, 
with  safety,  where  the  moral  principle  is  so  strong.  We 
need  not  discuss  these  irritating  subjects ;  we  may  put 
them  entirely  aside ;  for  there  is  a  nobler  field  to  work  in. 
Your  strong  character,  and  ascendancy  of  mind,  might  be 
most  useful  in  the  Church  of  God ;  not  in  a  subordinate 
capacity,  like  that  which,  in  the  novitiate,  you  found  so 
irksome,  but  in  a  more  fitting  one.  In  a  very  short  time, 
the  place  of  Lady  Superior " 

"  Allow  me ;  the  time  is  valuable,  and  the  end  of  your 
sentence  obvious.  You  make  such  a  proposition  to  me, 
knowing  me  to  disbelieve  and  reject  your  church ! — and 
employ  a  little  gross  flattery,  as  if  I  should  take  it  into 
my  ears, — to  put  myself  into  the  control  of  your  Church, 
and  under  the  immediate  spiritual  guidance  of  one  whose 
foul  heart  once  showed  itself  to  me.  No  !  I  trust  that 
the  lovely  girl  who  is  missing  is  under  no  such  control." 

"  She  is  under  no  control  of  mine,"  said  Father  Nicho 
las,  "  nor  have  I  any  means  of  knowing  where  she  is. — 
You  refer  to  the  past,  again.  A  priest  is  a  man,  and 
strong  temptation  has  been,  momentarily,  too  much  for 
chosen  saints ;  and  yet  they  remained  God's  saints, 
and " 

"  No  more,  sir !  Your  temptation  was  from  the  Devil 
and  yourself.  Do  you  dare,  calling  yourself  a  minister 


228  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

of  God,  at  whose  mouth  men  should  learn  the  law,  to  use 
God's  word  in  that  way  ?  To  make  warnings  into  exam 
ples  ?  I  need  no  answer ;  you  may  consider  your  pro 
posal  as  answered, — if  you  intended  one." 

"  Your  charges  and  constructions,"  said  the  Priest,  "  I 
suppose,  you  have  made  the  new  priest  acquainted  with." 

"  If  you  wish  to  know  whether  I  have  exposed  your 
character  to  him :  No  ! — You  have  no  further  business 
with  me,  Mr.  Crampton  ?  " 

The  Priest  collected  himself : — 

"  I  wish  I  were  more  eloquent,  that  I  might  save  you 
from  the  ruin  you  are  drawing  upon  yourself.  You  care 
not  for  the  scandal  you  are  bringing  on  God's  Holy 
Church  !  You  are  blind  to  the  loss  of  your  soul.  The 
judgment  of  God  in  taking  away  your  child  is  sent  in 
vain ;  his  warning  hand  laid  upon  the  remaining  child  is 
disregarded;  but  there  is  one  thing  that  presses  often 
nearer  yet,  than  fear  of  unseen  things  or  visitations  of 
God.  If,  as  is  so  often  the  case,  your  own  character  and 
reputation  should  be  visited,  and  if  men  should  say,  with 
more  than  a  sneer,  that  the  fault  in  your  separation  did 
not  lie  on  the  side  of  the  Church " 

"  You  needn't  be  at  the  trouble  to  go  further,  sir.  I 
have  listened  to  you  patiently  to  this  point,  and  have  an 
swered  you.  I  have,  in  turn,  a  single  question  to  pro 
pose,  which  I  think  I  may  claim  an  answer  for :  Was 
Mr.  Debree  privy  to  this  visit  ?  " 

"  My  motions,"  answered  Father  Nicholas,  "  are  gen 
erally  without  consultation  with  other  people,  as  my 
means  of  information,  also,  are  independent.  I  am  rather 
in  the  habit  of  giving  advice,  than  of  taking  it  from  them, 
and  Mr.  Debree  knows  nothing  of  my  coming  here." 

"  I  have  had  patience  with  you  thus  far.  Mr.  Cramp- 


TWO  WHO  HAVE  MET  BEFORE.  229 

ton,"  said  Mrs.  Barre,  opening  the  door  wide,  "  only  for 
the  sake  of  the  little  information  I  have  indirectly  got. 
You  have  had  no  claim  on  my  forbearance,  and  less  than  a 
right  to  expect  me  to  talk  with  you.  We  shall  have  no 
further  communication  together." 

The  Priest  bowed  formally ;  but  there  was  an  inten 
sity  in  his  look  which  showed  what  was  roused  within 
him.  His  face  was  livid  and  his  forehead  moist.  He 
passed  put,  with  another  slow  inclination  of  his  body, 
saying, — 

"Not  now,  but  very  likely  hereafter.  I4hink  you  will 
not  forget — I  came  with  little  hope  of  saving  you,  but 
to  clear  my  own  soul." 

"  I  couldn't  help  hearing,"  said  Fanny  Dare.  "  I 
wish  I  had  been  deaf;  I  can  be  dumb." 

They  sat  long  silent,  and  she  held  Mrs.  Barre's  hand. 
Mrs.  Barre  sat  long  after  Fanny  had  gone  home. 


230  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

FATHER  DEBREE  AT  BAY-HARBOR. 

AY-HARBOR  is  a  town  of  some  importance  in 
Conception  Bay  ;  and  quite  a  place  of  trade  and 
business.  It  is  also  the  cliief  town  of  a  district, 
as  respects  the  Roman  Catholic  Church ;  and  the  chief 
clergyman  of  that  denomination  officiating  in  Bay- Harbor 
is  superior  in  rank  and  title  to  the  others  in  that  district. 

At  this  time  the  Romish  clergy  there  were  the  Very 
Reverend  Father  O'Toole,  the  Reverend  Father  Dunne, 
(absent  for  some  months,)  and  the  Father  Nicholas,  whom 
the  reader  has  already  met. 

The  elder  priest  had  been  for  a  good  many  years  at 
Bay-Harbor,  and  was  generally  liked  and  thought  of,  as 
easy-going,  good-natured  men  are  apt  to  be.  He  held 
the  reins  of  discipline  gently  ;  had  been,  until  quite  lately, 
a  frequent  visitor  in  Protestant  families,  and  had  made  a 
present  of  his  horse  to  the  Protestant  clergyman. 

The  nature  of  Father  Nicholas's  position  there,  or  con 
nection  with  the  mission,  was  not  very  evident.  By  short 
and  frequent  steps  he  had  made  his  way  into  the  very 
midst  of  every  thing;  had  got  Father  O'Toole's  right 
hand,  as  it  were,  in  his ;  while  the  latter  had,  for  the  last 
few  months,  (since  the  withdrawal  of  the  priest  who  had 
been  associated  with  himself  for  years,  and  who  was  ex- 


THE  NEW  PRIEST  AT  BAY-HARBOR.  231 

pected  again,)  submitted  so  quietly  to  the  absorption  of 
much  of  his  own  work  tfod  authority,  that  it  might  have 
been  thought  to  be  an  arrangement  that  he  liked.  Many 
people  thought  the  new  comer  to  have  been  sent  out 
specially  by  the  Holy  Father  himself,  and  it  was  reported 
that  he  kept  a  record  of  every  thing  done  and  said  in  the 
important  town  of  Bay- Harbor,  (people  think  their  own 
town  a  place  of  great  consequence  in  the  world ;)  and 
that  the  Court  of  Rome  was  kept  regularly  informed  of 
every  thing  that  transpired,  and  a  good  deal  more.  It 
was  agreed  that  his  father  had  been  once  a  merchant  in 
Jamaica ;  afterwards  in  Cadiz  ;  and  that  Father  Nicholas 
had  been  brought  up  in  Spain. 

Some  Protestants  said  of  him  that  it  was  not  likely 
that  a  man  of  his  talents  would  be  kept  in  the  sort  of 
obscurity  that  even  Bay-Harbor  must  be  considered  as 
imposing,  unless  for  good  reason ;  and  that  it  was  prob 
ably  a  kind  of  banishment,  inflicted  or  allowed  by  his 
superiors;  but  other  Protestants  maintained,  in  opposi 
tion,  that  Father  Nicholas  was  intrusted  with  every 
priestly  function  and  authority,  and  that  it  was  a  vulgar 
prejudice  only  that  attributed  to  the  Church  of  Rome  the 
tolerance  of  unworthy  men  in  its  ministry.  Many  Pro 
testants  accordingly  showed  particular  attention  to  this 
priest. 

His  own  character  gave  no  more  encouragement  to  one 
supposition  than  to  another ;  but  might  be  reconciled  to 
any.  Elegant,  even  to  extreme,  at  times,  in  his  inter 
course  with  ladies  or  men  of  intelligence,  he  was,  some 
times,  negligent  and  even  abrupt  or  rude  to  either  sex. 
Highly  educated  and  studious,  as  he  was  thought  to  be, 
he  was  not  free  from  a  pedantry,  (or  affectation  of 
pedantry,)  in  conversation.  There  was  another  habitual 


232  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

antithesis  about  him ;  he  allowed  himself  often  in  a  remark, 
whose  freedom  betrayed  his  fatniliarity  with  the  ways 
and  wisdom  of  the  world,  or  whose  sarcasm,  bitterness,  or 
even  venom  showed  the  cheap  estimate  at  which  he  held 
men ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  he  would  utter,  habit 
ually,  lofty  principles  of  virtue,  and  warm  and  moving 
arguments  for  truth,  and  quoted  (in  their  own  language,) 
the  offices  of  the  Church  and  the  authorized  Scriptures, 
very  frequently  and  with  great  solemnity. 

It  was  curious  to  see  the  influence  of  his  new  associate 
upon  the  plain  old  Father  Terence.  Nominally  and 
ostensibly  at  the  head  of  the  clergy  of  the  district,  and 
enjoying  the  title  of  Very  Reverend,  he  put  the  other 
forward,  very  often,  or  allowed  him  to  put  himself  for 
ward,  both  in  doing  and  counselling,  in  a  way  which 
proved  his  own  indolence,  or  the  intellectual  or  other 
superiority  of  the  younger  man. 

In  one  respect  the  influence  of  the  younger  upon  the 
elder  was  amusingly  exhibited;  the  worthy  Father 
Terence,  having  resumed  his  studies,  and  making  a  point 
of  quoting  Latin  and  also  of  discoursing  ethics  and 
logic  when  the  presence  of  Father  Nicholas  tempted  him. 
He  also  prevented  the  recognition  of  his  own  precedence 
to  fall  into  desuetude,  by  asserting  or  inferring  it,  not 
seldom. 

Father  Nicholas,  for  his  part,  proclaimed  his  own  sub 
ordination. 

So  matters  stood  in  Bay-Harbor,  at  the  time  of  our 
story,  and  to  the  house  in  which  the  two  priests  lived,  not 
far  from  the  chapel,  we  are  now  to  bring  our  reader. 

It  must  have  been  about  seven  o'clock,  on  the  Tuesday 
morning,  that  Father  Debree  was  leading  the  horse  from 


THE   NEW  PRIEST  AT   BAY-HARBOR.  233 

winch  he  had  just  dismounted,  into  the  premises  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  mission  at  Bay-Harbor. 

"Ah !  thin,  it's  the  early  bird  catches  the  fox,"  cried 
a  good-natured  voice  from  above.  "  Can  ye  tie  him 
some  place,  a  bit  ?  an'  I'll  be  with  ye,  directly." 

While  the  utterer  of  the  proverb  was  coming,  or  pre 
paring  to  come,  the  dismounted  horseman  looked  about 
for  the  "  some  place  "  at  which  to  hitch  his  horse,  a  thing 
more  easily  sought  than  found.  Posts  there  were  none  ; 
trees  there  were  none ;  and  at  length  the  horse  was  fas 
tened  to  the  paling  near  the  road. 

"  Y'are  younger  than  meself,"  said  the  voice,  which 
had  before  addressed  him,  and  which  now  came  through 
the  door,  "  and  ye  haven't  that  weight  of  cares  and  labors ; 
but  I'm  glad  to  see  ye,"  it  added  heartily,  as  Father  De- 
bree  came  up  into  the  door  and  received  a  very  hospi 
table  shake  of  the  hand. 

"I  beg  pardon  for  being  so  unseasonable,  Father 
Terence,"  said  the  visitor.  "You  didn't  expect  me  so 
early?" 

"Ah,  brother,  if  ye  do  ever  be  placed  in  a  con- 
spikyis  and  responsible  post,  ye'll  know  that  it's  what 

belongs  to  us.  I  am  continyally,  continyally, but 

come  in ! " 

As  he  talked  thus,  Father  Terence  had  gone,  with  dig 
nity,  solid  and  substantial,  before  his  guest  into  the  parlor. 
The  dignitary's  most  "'conspikyis"  garment  was  not  such 
as  gentlemen  of  any  occupation  or  profession  are  accus 
tomed  to  appear  in.  It  was  not  white,  and  yet  it  was  not 
black  or  colored ;  it  did  not  fit  him  very  handsomely ;  was 
somewhat  short  in  the  legs,  with  a  string  or  two  dangling 
from  the  lower  ends,  and,  indeed,  had  the  appearance  of 
something  other  than  a  pair  of  trowsers. 


234  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

His  stockings  were  not  in"  conspikyis  "  ;  being  one  of 
gray  and  one  of  black-mixed,  very  indulgently  pulled  on 
and  crowded  into  two  slippers,  (not  a  pair,)  of  which  one 
had  the  appearance  of  being  a  shoe  turned  down  at  heel, 
and  the  other  was  of  quite  an  elegant  velvet,  though  of  a 
shape  somewhat  wider  than  is  elegant  in  a  human  foot. 
He  had  a  long  black  coat  opening  downward  from  a 
single  button  fastened  at  the  neck ;  and  on  his  head  a 
close  fitting  cotton  nightcap  coming  down  cosily  about  two 
good  thick  cheeks  and  tied  below  his  chin. 

The  face  for  all  this  body  was  plain,  but  kindly-look 
ing  ;  the  eyes  being  narrow,  the  nose  longish  and  thick, 
and  the  mouth  large ;  the  upper  lip  appearing  to  be  made 
of  a  single  piece,  and  the  lower  one  looking  as  if  it  were 
both  strong  and  active. 

The  chin  in  which  the  face  was  finished,  was  a  thick, 
round  one,  which  underneath  had  a  great  swelling,  like  a 
capacious  receptacle  in  which  for  years  had  been  accu 
mulating  the  drippings  of  a  well-served  mouth.  His 
forehead — now  partly  covered  by  the  nightcap, — if  not 
remarkably  high,  had  an  open,  honest  breadth. 

"  Take  a  chair !  Take  a  chair,  then,"  said  the  host, 
seating  himself. 

"Now,  brother,"  said  the  nightcapped  head,  bowing 
with  dignity,  u  I  think  we've  made  a  beginning." 

"  I've  hurried  you  too  much,  Father  O'Toole,"  said  the 
younger.  "  I  can  wait  here,  very  well,  until  you're  ready 
to  come  down." 

"  Amn't  I  down,  thin,"  asked  Father  Terence,  con 
clusively.  "  Do  ye  mind  the  psalm  where  it  says  '  Prae- 
venerunt  oculi  mei,  diluculo,  ut  meditarer  ? ' ' 

"  Excuse  me,  Reverend  Father  Terence,"  said  a  third 
voice,  "  you  never  lay  the  harness  off " 


THE  NEW  PEIEST  AT  BAY-HAKBOR.  235 

"  Ah !  Father  Nicholas  ! "  said  the  elder,  expostulat 
ing,  but  glancing  complacently  at  Father  Debree 

"But,"  continued  the  new-comer,  "your  impatience 
to  obey  the  call  of  duty  has  prevented  your  taking  time 
to  make  your  toilet.  Allow  me  to  take  your  place,  as 
far  as  I  can,  in  entertaining  my  old  neighbor  and  friend, 
while  you  allow  yourself  a  little  of  that  time  which 
you  may  reasonably  bestow  even  upon  so  insignificant 
an  object  as  dress." 

.  Father  Terence  had  evidently  not  bestowed  a  thought 
upon  so  insignificant  a  thing  ;  and  glancing  downwards,  at 
the  "  harness  which  he  had  not  laid  off,"  hastily  gathered 
the  skirts  of  his  black  garments  over  his  knees,  and  get 
ting  up,  made  his  retreat  with  a  convenient,  if  somewhat 
irrelevant,  clearing  of  his  throat,  and  a  bow  in  which 
dignity  bore  up  bravely  against  discomposure. 

Father  Nicholas  was  not  liable  to  censure  on  the  score 
of  having  neglected  his  dress ;  for  nothing  could  impress 
one  with  a  sense  of  thoroughness,  more  perfectly  than  his 
whole  personal  appearance ;  black, — somewhat  glossy, — 
from  his  throat  down  to  the  floor ;  contrasted  about  the 
middle  by  his  two  white  hands,  (of  which  one  glistened 
with  a  signet-ring,)  and  relieved  above  by  the  pale,  yel 
lowish  face,  with  its  high  forehead,  and  dark,  shining  eye, 
and  the  emphatic,  determined  mouth.  Above  the  face, 
again,  it  was  glossy,  wavy,  black  hair,  cut  short)  though 
no  tonsure  was  apparent. 

As  Father  Debree  made  no  motion,  and  gave  no  sign 
of  noticing  his  presence,  he  addressed  him,  in  a  courtly 
way,  without  committing  himself  to  too  great  warmth  of 
manner. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  have  seen  so  little  of  you. — I'm  so  busy 
that  I  can't  always  get  to  mass  even." 


236  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

So  saying,  he  held  out  a  friendly  hand,  which  the  other 
took  without  any  show  of  cordiality.  Father  Nicholas's 
eyes  searched  the  face  of  his  companion,  during  this  in 
terchange  of  salutations. 

"  You've  made  an  entrance  at  Peterport  ?  "  he  asked, 
renewing  the  conversation. 

The  other  answered  simply,  "  Yes." 

Father  Nicholas  did  not  tire. 

"  What  is  the  case,  now,  about  that  girl  ? "  he  asked, 
making  an  effort  to  throw  ease  and  kindliness  into  the 
conversation. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ? "  said  Father  Debree,  as  dis 
tantly  as  before. 

"  Do  they  think  her  drowned  ?  or  lost  in  the  woods  ? 
or  carried  off." 

"  It  begins  to  be  pretty  generally  believed  that  she  has 
been  carried  off  ?  " 

"  Are  any  particular  parties  suspected,  do  you  know  ?  " 
continued  Father  Nicholas,  in  his  persevering  cate 
chism. 

"  Yes ;  I'm  sorry  to  say  that  some  of  Mr.  Urston's 
family  and  other  Catholics  are  suspected." 

There  was  more  fire  in  Father  Nicholas's  eye  than 
force  in  his  voice ;  and  there  was,  always,  a  very  decided 
assertion  of  himself  in  his  manner,  however  quiet  it 
might  be. 

"  Do  you  mean  you're  sorry  that  they  should  suspect 
Catholics  ?  or  that  they  should  suspect  them  of  getting 
hold  of  a  Protestant's  daughter  ?  The  first  is  not  very 
new,  and  the  last  is  no  great  crime,  I  believe." 

"  Stealing  a  man's  daughter  !  "  said  Father  Debree. 

"  Suppose  you  say  '  saving  a  soul  ? '  '  de  igne  rapientes 
odientes  et  maculatam  tunicam  ? '  There  seems  to  be 


THE  NEW  PRIEST  AT  BAY-HARBOR.  237 

divine  warrant  for  it,"  answered  Father  Nicholas,  with 
very  quiet  self-possession. 

"You  wouldn't  apply  that  to  this  Mr.  Barbury's 
daughter  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  her  being  Mr.  Barbury's  daughter 
ought  to  exclude  her  from  our  interest,"  said  Father 
Nicholas,  smiling. 

"  I  feel  very  little  inclination  to  jest,"  said  the  other. 
"  Here  is  a  father  mourning  the  loss  of  his  daughter,  a 
girl  of  most  uncommon  character  and  promise,  and  he 
himself  an  object  of  universal  respect ;  one  whom  no  one 
can  know  without  respecting." 

"  You  seem  to  forget  about  the  mother,  whose  case  is  a 
little  peculiar,"  answered  Father  Nicholas  ;  "  but  suppose 
I  speak  for  another  mother,  and  say  that  she  has  been 
mourning  over  her  lost  children,  and  yearning  for 
them?" 

"  But  this  girl  was  a  Protestant,  heart  and  soul " 

"  And  therefore  mustn't  be  made  a  Catholic,  heart  and 
soul?  I  don't  see  the  application,"  returned  Father 
Nicholas.  "  You're  new  to  this  neighborhood ;  but  I 
gave  you  some  information,  I  think.  This  girl's  mother, 
i  In  good  old  Catholic  times,  when  our  Lord  the  Pope 
was  King,'  -would  have  been  reduced  to  a  heap  of  ashes, 
by  way  of  penance  involuntary.  Moreover, " 

"  I  don't  quite  see  your  application,"  said  Father  De- 
bree,  in  his  turn ; — "  I  remember  what  you  said  of  the 
family,  before." 

"  —  Moreover,"  continued  the  other,  "  this  girl  has 
been  baptized  into  the  Catholic  Church. — Yes,  sir,"  he 
added,  noticing  a  start  of  surprise  in  his  hearer ;  "  and, 
moreover,  this  girl  was  stealing  a  sacrifice  from  the  altar ; 
— the  heart  of  young  Urston;  nay,  I  believe  she  has 


238  THE  NEW  PEIEST. 

stolen  it,  (and  done  me  a  mischief,  in  certain  quarters,  by 
that  very  thing,  by  the  way;)  and  moreover,  lastly, — 
what  you  may  think  more  to  the  purpose, — I  believe  they 
found  no  evidence,  whatever,  against  the  Urstons  in  the 
examination,  yesterday  morning." 

At  this  point  of  the  conversation,  solid  steps  were 
heard,  bringing  Father  Terence  back.  "'Bonum  est 
viro,  cum  portaveritjugum  ab  adolescentia  sua,'"  he  was 
saying. 

"  What  a  treasure  to  have  a  mind  so  stored  with  sacred 
precepts !  "  exclaimed  Father  Nicholas ;  "  dulciora  super 
mel  etfavum"  Then  saying  to  his  companion,  "  Excuse 
my  want  of  hospitality ;  I  must  see  to  your  horse ; "  he 
hurried  out  of  the  room  by  a  different  door  from  that 
which  Father  O'Toole  was  approaching. 

The  priest  from  Peterport  hurried  in  the  same  direc 
tion,  as  if  to  prevent  him ;  so  that  when  the  worthy 
elder  reentered  the  room,  he  found  it  forsaken,  and  only 
heard  retreating  steps. 

"The  present  company  seems  to  be  mostly  absent," 
said  he. 

Father  Debree  soon  came  back  and  apologized. 

"Ah!"  said  Father  O'Toole,  "I  know  meself  it's 
necessary  looking  to  thim  now  and  again  ;  sure,  hadn't  I 
one  meself  then  for  rnanny  years,  named  Pishgrew,*  from 
some  French  General,  or  other ;  (the  boys  called  um 
1  Pitchgrove,'  from  a  trick  he  had  of  getting  tar  on  um, 
however  it  was  he  got  it,)  and  when  he  wasn't  looked  to, 
quare  things  he  did.  He  gnawed  his  own  tail  and  mane 
off,  many's  the  time,  when  my  eye  was  off  him ;  the 
children  all  said  the  one  thing  of  him ;  and  sure,  they'd 

*  There  was  a  French  General  Pichegru  famous  in  the  armies  of 
the  Kepublic. 


THE  NEW  PRIEST  AT  BAY-HARBOR.  239 

the  best  chance  to  know,  having  nothing  else  to  do,  mostly, 
but  to  be  watchin  him  at  his  pasture." 

Mr.  Debree  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  simple 
notion  of  the  necessity  of  looking  after  a  valuable  horse 
who  had  come  some  miles  at  a  good  rate,  lest  he  should 
eat  off  his  own  tail  and  mane. 

"  Ye'll  stay  the  day,  then,  like  a  man  of  good  sense, 
won't  ye,"  asked  Father  O'Toole. — "  It's  not  that  much 
time  I  give  upon  the  externals; — 'turbamur — '  what's 
this  it  is  ? — '  erga — plurima  ; '  '  one  thing  's  necessary  ; ' 
but  I'm  more  conforming  and  shutable,  now." 

Indeed  he  was ;  dressed  in  a  long,  black  cassock  of 
camlet,  or  something  like  it ;  black  stock  and  black  stock 
ings,  and  shoes  with  small  silver,  (at  least  shining) 
buckles  on  them  ;  and  irongray  locks  behind ;  respectable, 
if  not  venerable,  he  looked  like  one  of  the  Irish  Roman 
priests  of  the  old  time,  who  had  been  twenty  or  thirty 
years  in  the  island. 

"  We'll  be  having  breakfast  shortly,"  said  the  host ; 
"  it's  not  good  talking  too  much  with  only  air  in  your 
belly ;  and  after  breakfast  we'll  hear  how  ye're  getting  on  " 

The  old  gentleman  went  to  see  after  breakfast,  or  some 
other  matter,  and  Mr.  Debree  was  left  to  himself. 

Nothing  appeared  in  the  room  to  occupy  the  attention 
of  the  visitor  but  two  remains  of  books,  one  painting  on 
the  wall,  and  a  box  upon  the  mantel-shelf.  The  furni 
ture  was  scanty,  not  quite  clean,  and  many  of  the  pieces 
occupied  with  things  of  many  kinds.  Of  the  books  upon 
the  table,  one  was  a  breviary  without  covers,  and  almost 
without  contents ;  for  a  great  deal  of  what  had  formerly 
been  paper  was  now  nothing.  Of  what  remained  in  type 
and  tissue,  a  greasy  flaccidness  had  taken  hold.  The  other 
was  an  odd  volume  of  Mr.  Alban  Butler's  Lives  of  Saints, 


240  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

of  which  it  would  be  hard  to  say  why  it  had  lost  one 
cover ;  for  the  inside  showed  no  such  marks  of  use  and 
wear  as  would  account  for  it.  Some  places  had  been  fin 
gered,  and  here  a  scrap  of  a  tobacco  wrapping-paper, 
and  there  some  grains  of  snuff,  showed  that,  by  accident 
or  of  set  purpose,  its  bulk  of  pages  had  been  sometimes 
broken. 

The  hanging  picture  was  a  specimen  of  painting  not  al 
together  such  as  monkish  or  other  hands  devout  have  some 
times  produced,  without  concurrence  of  the  head  or  heart, 
but  one  into  which  had  gone  something  of  spirit  from  the 
worker.  It  showed  a  comfortable-looking  person,  dressed 
as  a  Dominican,  and  with  a  halo  indicating  saintship  around 
his  head,  within  the  ring  of  which,  and  covering  his  shaven 
crown,  there  was  a  fair  and  fruitful  grape-vine,  with  broad 
leaves  and  clustering,  purple  grapes,  a  bunch  of  which  the 
sainted  man  was  squeezing  into  a  golden  helmet,  from 
which,  already  overrunning,  a  stream  was  flowing  down 
and  off  into  the  distance.  Over  the  top  was  a  legend 
from  Is.  xxii.,  "  Calix  meus  inebrians,  quam  prceclarus  !  " 
Some  explanation  of  the  circumstances  was  probably  con 
tained  in  a  Latin  inscription  underneath,  which,  being  in 
some  parts  quite  imperfect,  had  been  freshened  and  re 
touched,  as  it  appeared,  with  ink. 

Divus  Vinobibius,         olim  Miles  fortis, 
Contra  Gentes  indicas  fortissirae  pugnavit: 
VIII.  M  Viros,  sine  Timore  Mortis, 
Solo  Intuitu         mire  truci  davit. 
Deinde  multis  Ictis,  a  Tergo  immolatus, 
Ecce  super  Capite  repente  Vitis  exit: 
Et  illius  Palmite  superne  circundatus, 
Dibit,  et  Virtute  nova  resurrexit. 

Father  Debree  cast  rather  a  sad  look  at  the  "  saint,"  and 
turned  in  a  listless  way  to  the  outside  of  the  last  object 


THE  NEW  PRIEST  AT  BAY-HARBOR.  241 

of  attraction — the  snuff-box  on  the  mantel-shelf — when 
he  was  called  to  breakfast  by  Father  Terence. 

"  It's  not  my  own,  that,"  said  Father  O'Toole,  "  'twas 
left  upon  me  by  the  man  I  got  the  Blessed  Virgin  of,  that 
hangs  at  the  left  of  the  altar,  beyond.  Himself  hung  it, 
and  I  never  stirred  it. — He  takes  his  meals  by  himself, 
mostly,"  continued  Father  O'Toole,  by  way  of  explaining 
his  assistant's  absence.  "The  conversation  was  much 
more  cordial  without  him." 

As  may  be  supposed,  no  duty  of  hospitality  was  omit 
ted  by  the  kindly  Irishman,  and  a  good  example  was  set 
in  his  own  person  of  practice  in  eating. 

There  were  several  subjects  on  which  the  two  priests 
were  to  confer,  or  did  confer ;  but  Father  Debree  was 
still  occupied  with  the  loss  of  Skipper  George's  daughter, 
and  the  suspicions  attaching  to  the  Urstons  and  to  the 
nuns  from  Bay-Harbor.  The  old  priest  took  a  kindly 
interest. 

"  Indade,  it's  a  sad  thing  for  a  father  to  lose  his  child ! " 
said  he. 

"  But  he's  a  Protestant,"  said  Father  Debree. 

"  And  hasn't  a  Protestant  feelings  ?  Ay,  and  some  o' 
them  got  the  best  o'  feelings.  I'm  sure  yerself 's  no  call 
to  say  against  it. — It's  in  religion  they  make  the  great 
mistake." 

"  I'm  not  inclined  to  deny  it,  Father  Terence,  and  this 
is  a  noble  man,  this  Skipper  George  ;  but " 

"  And  who's  Skipper  George,  then  ?  Is  he  the  father  ? 
Oh !  sure  there's  good  Protestants  ;  and  it's  hard  to  lose 
a  child  that  way,  and  not  to  know  is  she  dead  or  living,  or 
torn  to  pieces,  or  what ! " 

"  Not  every  one  has  such  good  feeling,  when  the  father's 
a  Protestant." 

VOL.    I.  16 


242  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  But  the  Urstons  are  not  that  way,  at  all ;  and  James 
was  a  good  boy  ! "  answered  the  old  priest. 

"  It's  a  mystery,  and  a  deplorable  one !  I  couldn't 
think  they've  taken  her ;  but  she  was  last  seen  near  their 
house,  probably ;  and  some  things  belonging  to  her  have 
been  found  at  the  house  and  near  it ;  there's  no  doubt  of 
that;"— 

— "  And  haven't  ye  the  direction  of  them  ?  "  asked 
Father  Terence. 

"  Mrs.  Calloran  confesses  to  Father  Crampton.  I 
never  see  James.  She  tells  me  that  he's  leaving  the 
Church." 

"  No !  no ! "  said  the  old  priest,  with  great  feeling ; 
then  shook  his  head  and  added,  "  I  hadn't  the  charge  of 
him,  this  while  back. — I  mind  hearing  this  girl  was  lead 
ing  him  away,  but  I  can't  think  it  of  him." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  has  done  it,  Father  Terence,  from 
all  that  I  can  hear.  He  may  have  fallen  in  love  with 
her." 

"  And  why  would  she  let  him,  and  him  going  to  be  a 
priest  ?  " 

"  There  were  some  nuns,  so  it  seems,  at  Mr.  Urston's 
house  that  evening,"  said  Father  Debree,  returning  to  the 
former  subject ;  "  and  it's  said  that  they  were  seen  carry 
ing  some  one  away." 

"  It's  little  I  know  about  the  holy  women,"  Father  Te 
rence  answered,  "more  than  if  they  were  the  Eleven 
Thousand  Virgins  itself;  but  what  would  they  do  the 
like  for  ?  And  would  any  one  belonging  to  this,  whatever 
way  it  was  with  the  girl,  without  me  knowing  it  ? — but 
will  ye  see  to  the  boy  James  ?  And  couldn't  ye  bring 
him  to  speak  with  me  ?  " 

Father  Terence  forgot  and  neglected  his  own  break- 


THE  NEW  PRIEST  AT  BAY-HARBOR.  243 

fast,  though  he  did  not  forget  his  hospitality.  He  seemed 
almost  impatient  to  have  his  commission  undertaken  im 
mediately. 

His  guest,  too,  appeared  to  have  little  appetite  ;  but  he 
lingered  after  they  left  the  table,  and  presently  said  : — 

"  There  was  another  subject,  Father  Terence  " 

"  Come  and  see  me  again,  do  !  and  we'll  talk  of  every 
thing ;  and  don't  forget  the  lad.  I'd  not  let  you  go  at  all, 
only  for  that," 

The  young  priest  accordingly  took  his  leave. 


244  THE 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

A    CALL    AT   A   NUNNERY. 

D JOINING  the  priest's  house  in  Bay-Harbor 
was  a  small  building  of  later  construction,  en 
tered  from  the  opposite  direction.  At  the  door 
of  this  building,  a  pretty  loud  and  continuous  rapping 
was  heard  early  in  the  forenoon  of  Tuesday,  the  nine 
teenth  day  of  August ;  and  again  and  again. 

"  Wall,  s'pose  I  may's  well  go  V  stir  up  the  neighbors 
a  mite,  'n'  see  what's  the  matter  here.  'Guess  they've 
got  a  little  o'  the  spirit  o'  slumber  in  'em,  b'  th'  way  they 
act,"  said  the  visitor. 

As  Mr.  Bangs  turned  to  go  away  from  the  door,  a 
noise  was  heard  within  the  house,  and  the  door  was  un 
locked,  unbolted,  and  opened.  Mr.  Bangs  had  by  this 
time  got  himself  at  some  distance  from  the  scene  of  his 
late  exercise,  and,  in  his  business-like  way  of  walking, 
was  lengthening  the  distance  between  it  and  himself.  At 
the  opening  of  the  door,  he  retraced  his  steps  with  alac 
rity. 

" '  Wanted  to  see  the  head  o'  this  Inst'tootion  a  minute, 
'f  tain't  too  m'ch  trouble.  Wun't  you  jest  ask  her  to  step 
this  way  ?  " 

The  janitress  hesitated ;  but,  saying  she  would  speak 
to  Sister  Theresa,  shut  the  door  gently  between  the  holy 
women  and  the  man  from  the  world  without. 


A  CALL  AT  A  NUNNERY.  245 

Another  nun  appeared,  and  meekly  waited  until  the 
visitor  should  declare  his  errand.  Mr.  Bangs,  for  his 
part,  had  not  his  wonted  fluency  of  speech. 

"  'Twas  on  business  'f  some  'mportance  t'  the  Catholic 
Church,"  he  said. 

"  I  must  refer  you  to  the  reverend  clergy,  sir.  You'll 
find  one  of  them  at  the  other  door — Father  Terence  or 
Father  Nicholas."  She  was  very  definite,  though  very 
gentle. 

"  Wall,  ma'am,"  said  the  American,  "  'f  you  think  I'd 
bes'  go  'n'  see  holy  Father  Nichols  first,  wh'  I'll  go.  'M 
sorry  'f  I've  disturbed  ye ;  's  no  harm  meant,  I'm  sure. 
If  you'll  make  my  compliments  t'  the  rest,  I'll  say  '  Good 
mornin',  ma'am ; ' "  and  he  held  out  his  hand  for  a  part 
ing  courtesy.  He  might  as  well  have  held  it  out  to  the 
moon. 

"  Hope  the's  no  hos-tile  feelin's ; — wish  ye  (  Good-day, 
ma'am.'" 

The  sister  bowed  gravely,  and  gently  shut  the  door. 

"  Wall,  look  a'  here,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,  as  he  found  him 
self  alone  with  himself,  on  the  outside,  turning  round  to 
survey  the  building  and  neighborhood. 

"  Have  you  business  with  some  one  here  ?  "  asked  a 
voice  that  made  him  start  a  little ;  and  he  saw  Father 
Nicholas,  such  as  we  have  described  him. 

"  Wall !  oF  Gen'l  Isril  Putnam's  wolf  was  a  fool  to 
this,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,  in  a  low  voice,  by  way  of  rein 
stating  himself  in  his  self-possession  ;  then  aloud,  "  Oh ! 

How  d'ye  do,  Mr. ?  Can't  'xacly  call  ye  by  name 

— Holy  Father  guess  '11  do.  Wall,  I  did  have  a  little 
business  with  'em,  "r  some  of  'em.  Seems  to  be  c'nsid'ble 
rural  retirement  'bout  this — nunnery,  s'pose  'tis, — .  This 
country  don't  seem  t'  have  much  natch'l  gift 't  raisin'  trees 


246  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

— don't  seem  't  take  to  it — Bangs,  my  name  is.  Come 
f  m  th'  States." 

"  And  may  I  ask,  Mr.  Bangs,  what  particular  business 
you  had  here  ?  " 

"  Certin ;  's  no  harm  'n  askin',  ye  know.  T's  the 
motto  'f  the  R'public,  ye  may  say." 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  know,  then,"  said  Father  Nicholas, 
drily. 

"  Shouldn't  wonder  'f  'twould  'ford  ye  some  pleasure ; 
though  guess  ye'll  be  ruther  'stonished,  f 'r  a  spell.  Come 
to  look  int'  this  r'ligion-business  a  mite.  Don't  mind 
tellin'  you." 

Father  Nicholas  smiled :  "  Oh !  Mr.  Bangs,  from  Pe- 
terport,  the  American  merchant ! "  said  he.  "  Your  nation 

is  becoming  distinguished ,"  ("they're  'bout  it,  I 

b'lieve,"  inserted  Mr.  Bangs,  by  way  of  commentary,) 
"  for  intelligence  and  enterprise."  ("  The'  is  such  a  thing's 
bein'  cute,  certin,"  said  Mr.  Bangs.)  "  So  you  wanted 
to  make  some  religious  inquiries  ? " 

"Wall,  'smuch  that  's  any  thing,  'guess,"  said  Mr. 
Bangs,  who,  as  he  concentrated  his  force  upon  his  words, 
knitted  his  brows,  and  looked  a  little  to  the  left  of  the 
person  he  was  addressing,  as  we  are  taught  to  look  at 
bright  bodies  in  the  sky.  "  D'ye  s'pose  they'd  gi'  me  a 
chance  to  git  conviction  ?  'T  any  rate,  t'  look  into  it  and 
join, 'f  I  felt  like  it?" 

"  Oh !  yes,"  answered  the  priest,  "  any  body  can  have 
a  chance.  There's  a  way  wide  enough." 

"  Yes. — Bible  says, '  Wide  is  the  way,' "  said  Mr.  Bangs. 
"  Ye  see  the's  all  my  folks  are  Protestants,  'n'  al'a's  were, 
fur's  I  know,  f 'm  th'  beginning  of  the  Bangses,  and  stood 
p'tty  high,  too, — that  is,  some  of  'em  did.  Why,  my  great 
uncle  was  Deacon  Parsimmon  Tarbox — lived  at  Brain- 


A  CALL  AT  A  NUNNERY.  247 

tree,  'n  Massachusetts.  'Tain't  likely  you  ever  heard  of 
him ;  but  I  dono  what  'd  come  over  'em  to  hear  't  one  o' 
the  family  'd  turned  Catholic." 

"  But  let  me  ask,  If  you  wanted  to  see  me,  how  come 
you  to  call  here  ?  " 

"  Wall,  sir.  I  didn't  exactly  come  to  see  you.  I  come 
t'  see  some  o'  the  folks  that  keep  this  'stablishment." 

"  What  sort  of  establishment  do  you  take  this  to  be, 
then  ?  " 

"  Why,  a  nunnery,  'r  a  convent,  or  somethin'  o'  that 
sort." 

"  But  you  don't  expect  to  take  the  veil,  do  you  ?  "  in 
quired  the  priest,  with  an  unqualified  smile. 

"  No.  'T's  on'y  women-folks  't  wear  veils ;  but  you 
see,  it's  these  nunneries,  and  mummeries,  V  what  not," 
(Mr.  Bangs  looked  very  innocent,)  "  are  gen'lly  counted 
about  the  hardest  thing  in  the  Catholic  religion  ;  and  my 
way  is,  al'a's  to  go  chock  up  to  head  quarters,  when  I 
want  to  know  about  a  thing,  and  so,  thinks  I,  I'll  jes'  go 
and  see  for  myself." 

"  Did  you  expect  to  walk  right  in  and  look  about  for 
yourself  ?  " 

"  Wall,  I  thought,  you  know,  'taint  like  one  o'  those 
Eastern  hairims,  where  they  wun't  let  a  fellah  go  in,  any 
way,  'cause  the  women  all  belong  to  'em,  and  they're 
afraid  to  have  'em  ketched  or  snapped  up.  Says  I,  This 
is  a  Christian  institootion,  all  open  and  above  board." 

"  Yes,  you're  right,  to  a  proper  extent.  There  is  no 
concealment  but  what  is  necessary  for  the  object ;  which 
is,  retirement  from  the  world  in  peace  and  safety.  Men, 
of  course,  are  excluded,  because  this  is  a  house  of  holy 
women." 

"  Cer-tin.     'Stablishment  1'k'  this  'd  make  a  church  of 


248  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

itself,  and  might  have  meetin', — mass,  ye  know, — all  £ 
themselves,  and  a  priest  o'  their  own.  Why,  't  the  Lu 
natic  'Sylum  up  to  Worcester,  they  have  a  preacher,  and 
keep  the  men  and  women — wall,  keep  'em  separate,  any 
way.  Say  here's  where  the  females  sit,  all  'long  here," 
(waving  his  hand,)  "  then  here's  what  ye  may  call  a  broad 
aisle ." 

"  May  I  inquire  what  particular  object  you  had  in  view 
in  seeing  the  head  of  the  family  here  ?  "  asked  the  Priest. 

"  Wh'  ye  know  th'  Protestants  Y  pleggy  hard  upon 
convents ; — clappin'  gals  up,  an'  keepin'  'em  'n  prison,  'n' 
dungeon,  'n'  what  not.  When  the's  so  much  'f  it,  ye 
want  t'  hear  t'other  side.  Over  here  to  Peterport,  th' 
wanted  me  to  go  'n'  testify  't  I  saw  the  nuns  acarr'in'  off 
that  gal,  (down  the  rocks,  there  ;)  but  I  come  away  'n? 
left  'em,  s'pose  ye  heard ; — 's  such  a  thing 's  goin'  too  far. 
Sometimes  they  want  to  be  carried  off;  'n'  sometimes  the' 
aint  'ny  carr'in'  off  'bout  it.  Thinks  I,  's  nothin'  'gainst 
my  goin'  'n'  callin'  'n  a  fash'nable  way,  'n'  takin'  a  look. 
The's  ben  some  pleggy  smart  men  'n  the  Catholic  church  ; 
(there's  Cardinal  Wolsey ;)  and  these  Protestants,  s'pose 
you'll  admit,  are  a  little  the  slowest  race ! — kith,  kin,  kit, 
— ihe  whole  boodle  of  'em.  Their  wits  ain't  cute  'nough 
to  find  the  holes  in  their  heads,  /  b'lieve.  Why,  there's 
their  Magistrate  can't  stand  it :  shouldn't  wonder  'f  he 
turned." 

At  this  point  Mr.  Bangs  waited  for  his  companion,  who 
had  been  apparently  rather  entertained  by  the  American's 
matter  and  manner. 

"  You  saw  Sister  Theresa,  I  suppose  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  'n'  found  her  quite  the  lady.  Don't  seem 
t'  come  out,  'xactly,  1'k'  some— owin'  to  bringin'  up,  likely 
—but  what  ye'd  call  a  fine  woman.  Now,  'n  th'  States, 


A  CALL  AT  A  NUNNERY.  249 

ye  walk  right  up  to  a  public  inst'tootion,  'n'  they  invite  ye 
in,  and  show  ye  the  whole  concern,  'n'  ask  ye  to  write 
your  name  'n  a  big  book  t'  show  't  you  ben  there." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Bangs,  it's  unusual,  but  your  case  is  peculiar, 
being  a  citizen  of  the  Great  Republic,  and  disposed  to  be 
impartial.  Perhaps  wo  might  make  an  exception  in  your 
favor.  I  suppose  the  sooner  the  better,  in  your  opinion. 
For  instruction  I  shall  introduce  you  to  the  Very  Rev 
erend  Father  O'Toole,  by-and-by." 

"  Wall,  sir,  the's  a  hymn  (dono's  y'  ever  heard  it) 
goes— 

'  Now's  the  day,  an'  now's  the  hour: 
See  the  front  o'  Babel  tower: 
See  approach  proud  Satan's  power: 
Sin  an'  Slavery.'  " 

"  I's  all'a's  brought  up  t'  know  the  value  'f  time,  'n'  do 
a  thing  while  ye're  about  it.  I's  brought  up  there  by 
Boston,  ye  know, — close  by,  out  to  Needham,  that  is, 
where  they  had  the  Gen'l  Trainin',  (used  to,  'n  I's  a 
shaver,  't  any  rate.)  Never  had  t'  tell  me,  i  Go  to  yer 
aunt,  ye  sluggard.'  Wall,  folks  al'a's  bed  the  credit  o' 
bringin'  up  p'ty  fair  specimens,  about  Boston,  you  know. 
'Course  your  province-people  (that  is,  dono  'bout  the 
priest-part,  but  province-folks  gen'lly)  know  all  about 
Boston  's  well 's  I  can  tell  ye.  Why,  fact,  up  here  in 
Canady,  ('ts  all  same  thing,  s'pose,)  they  used  to  call  all 
the  people  in  the  States  *  Bostonese,'  or  '  Bostonase,'  or 
whatever  the  French  word  is.  Wall,  the  bringin'  up 
'bout  Boston  's  p'tty  well  known.  I's  a  mere  runt  to 
some  of  'em ;  but,  's  I's  sayin',  about  this  Peterport,  's 
they  call  it — might 's  well  call  it  Potter-port,  'n'  be  done 
with  it — for  such  a  potterin'  and  pokin*  about  their  busi 
ness,  I  never  saw.  Yankee  Doodle  's  our  naytional  toone, 


250  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

ye  know  ;  and  there  aint  'ny  stop  about  that ;  when  our 
Yankees  set  out  with  that,  something's  got  to  go,  ship 
shape  or  shop-shape,  'r  some  way.  A  fellah  must  hev  a 
plaguy  sight  of  stick  in  his  shoes  that  don't  go  ahead  to 
that  toone.  'Twa'n't  so  much  the  fault  o'  the  British,  's 
'twas  becos  nothin'  can  stand  before  our  Yankees  when 
they're  hitched  on  to  it  and  that  toone  agoin'.  Wh'  't 

Bunker that's  'bout  wars  and  battles,  though ;  don't 

concern  us,  now ;  but  I  dono's  ye  ever  noticed  what  a  sol 
emn  psalm-toone  that  '11  make,  only  put  it  slow  enough. 
Faw  ! "  he  sang,  setting  his  head  straight  on  his  neck  and 
swelling  out  his  throat,  as  if  beginning  an  illustration  of 
the  adaptedness  of  his  favorite  air. 

The  Priest  smiled.    "  We'll  try,  then,"  said  he. 

So  saying,  he  turned  to  the  door  on  which  the  knuckles 
of  the  American  had  been  playing  so  persistently,  and 
knocking  three  times,  and  ringing  a  bell,  gave  the  sen 
tence,  "  Ave,  Maria  Sanctissima !  "  in  a  clear  voice.  An 
answer  was  made  by  a  woman,  "  Sine  labe  concepta," 
and  then  the  entrance  was  made  open  to  them. 

Father  Nicholas  went  forward  into  the  nearest  room, 
Mr.  Bangs  following,  and  the  sister  being  in  the  rear. 
He  then  turned  square  about  and  said :  "  Sister  Agnes, 
this  visitor  from  the  United  States  of  America  is  making 
inquiries  into  the  truths  of  our  Most  Holy  Faith.  He  has 
a  desire  to  ascertain  whether  our  religious  houses  are 
prisons.  Have  the  kindness  to  say  to  Sister  Theresa, 
that,  with  her  leave,  we  are  come  to  see  this  simple  little 
house." 

— "What's  your  will,  Father  Nicholas?"  asked  Sister 
Theresa,  meekly,  as  she  entered. 

"  Mr.  Bangs,  Ma'am, — you  recollect,"  said  the  Ameri 
can,  recalling  her  memory  to  himself. 


A  CALL  AT  A  NUNNERY.  251 

"  I  only  wish  to  ask  permission,  in  favor  of  Mr.  Bangs, 
here,  to  go  through  your  little  establishment  in  rny  com 
pany.  It  is  not  for  the  gratification  of  idle  curiosity,  but 
for  important  reasons,  which  I  will  explain  hereafter," 
said  Father  Nicholas,  looking  significantly,  less  at  Sister 
Theresa  than  at  the  visitor,  who  answered,  with  an  ex 
pression  of  intelligence,  "  Jes'  so." 

"  Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  direct  me  ? "  asked 
she,  in  return. 

"  We  will  follow  you,  if  you  please." 

"  And  where  shall  we  begin  ?  "  asked  she  again,  still  in 
uncertainty. 

"Any  where.  Here,  for  example,  at  the  beginning, 
if  you'll  let  me  take  the  guide's  office,"  said  the  Priest. 
"  This  room,  Mr.  Bangs,  is  the  parlor.  Not  very  splen 
did,  you  see." 

"  Certin.  This  paintin'  ain't  a  common  work,  by  con- 
sid'ble.  One  o'  the  best  things  o'  that  sort,  I  'most  ever 
saw."  In  saying  this,  the  American  put  himself  at  a 
distance,  inclined  his  head  a  little  to  one  side,  and  applied 
his  hand,  made  into  a  tube,  to  his  right  eye,  closing  the 
other.  "  Seems  to  freshen  on  the  gaze  !  don't  it ! " 

"  This  room,  with  this  sort  of  hole  in  the  door,"  con 
tinued  his  reverend  guide,  to  the  tasteful  American,  not 
too  abruptly,  opening  the  door  communicating  with  the 
room  in  the  rear,  through  which  the  nun  had  come  to  the 
former  interview  with  her  curious  visitor,  "is  a  sort  of 
back-parlor,  having  this  opening  to  allow  the  ladies  to 
communicate,  if  necessary,  with  persons  here,  without  ex 
posing  themselves  to  the  observation  of  strangers  or  others." 

"  Jes'  so.  Good  '1 1'k'  one  o'  the  peek-holes  at  Bunkum's 
Grand  Universal  Skepticon,  down  to  Boston ;  greatest 
thing  o'  the  kind  in  the  world,  they  say.  I  don't  s'pose 


252  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

Sister  Theresy  ever  bad  much  notion  for  those  things ; 
but  you're  aware  there  are  great, — wall, — " 

"  Here  w.e  are  at  the  last  room  on  this  floor.  This 
little  place  is  a  private  retiring  room,  for  prayer,"  inter 
rupted  the  Priest,  gently  and  easily, — Mr.  Bangs  accept 
ing  the  interruption  as  quite  regular. 

"  Don't  seem  to  make  much  provision  f '  the  wants  o' 
the  flesh,  any  how,"  said  the  latter.  "  First  house,  pretty 
much,  's  I  may  say,  I  ever  see  'thout  a  kitchin.  Wall,  I 
didn't  s'pose  'twas  a  fact,  but  they  used  to  say,  you  know, 
that  nuns  lived  p'tty  much  like  Injuns,  on  parched  corn, 
and  so  on." 

"  The  Sisters'  simple  cooking  is  done  in  the  adjoining 
house,  belonging  to  the  Reverend  Father  O'Toole,"  ex 
plained  his  guide,  "  for  the  Mission,  in  this  place." 

"  Very  solemn,  cer-tin : — that  fixin'  there,  I  mean." 
Father  Nicholas  and  the  lady,  standing  silent,  after  hav 
ing  crossed  themselves  at  sight  of  the  crucifix  and  one  of 
the  usual  representations  of  a  woman  with  a  child,  before 
which  "  fixin',"  as  it  had  just  been  called,  stood,  on  a  little 
bracket-shelf,  a  metal  candlestick  and  candle  and  a  few 
very  artificial  flowers,  with  one  real  moss  rose  and  three 
real  rose  leaves  among  them. 

"  I  ain't  quite  used  to  doin'  that,  yet,"  continued  the 
visitor,  referring  to  the  crossing,  and  gesticulating  after 
some  fashion  of  his  own.  While  he  was  making  his 
demonstration,  however,  there  was  some  sound  of  a  cough 
or  sneeze  from  more  than  one  of  the  neighboring  females, 
whoever  or  wherever  they  were. 

"  Pupils,  or  servants,"  said  the  priestly  conductor,  look 
ing  with  something  like  asperity  towards  the  Sister ;  then, 
turning  the  end  of  the  sentence  to  Mr.  Bangs,  "  We  shall 
soon  run  through  our  narrow  limits ;  and  you  will  get  no 


A  CALL  AT  A  NUNNEKY.  253 

very  exalted  notion  of  the  importance  of  our  meek  little 
community,"  continued  Father  Nicholas.  "  Our  next  steps 
go  up  these  narrow  stairs." 

"  Guess  thy  ain't  much  goin'  down,  f 'r  't  seems  folks 
gen'lly,  here,  think  the  land  turns  to  water,  'little  way 
down.  No  need  o'  raisin'  a  cry  o'  dungeons,  and  lockups, 
and  what-nots,  under  ground.  Why,  here's  a  little  door — 
fact, — goin'  down  to  some  root-cellar,  likely ; — '  should  like 
to  see  a  cellar  under  ground,  f '  once,  f '  variety,  in  this 
country." 

"  You  shall  be  gratified,  certainly,"  said  his  ecclesiasti 
cal  guide,  "  as  far  as  may  be ;  but  I  fancy  that  not  much 
is  to  be  seen,  unless  the  darkness  is  visible." 

The  American  putting  his  eyes  and  nose  down  towards 
the  opening,  remarked  upon  it,  very  summarily,  "  why, 
't  is  i  's  dark  's  a  pitch-pipe,'  's  the  boy  said,  and  smells 
strong  'f  old  straw  or  hay ;  but  't's  a  comfort  to  see  it,  any 
how.  You  see,  comin'  right  f 'm  the  States,  where  a  man 
M  jest  'bout 's  soon  think  of  hevin'  no  pockit  in  his  pants, 
as  not  hevin'  a  cellar  to  his  house,  it  looks  strange  to  me 
not  seem'  one,  all  the  time  I've  ben  here :  one  o'  your 
real  old-fashioned  ones  comes  in  well.  What  curis  sort 
o'  partitions  they  have  here,  compared  'th  real  walls  o' 
lath  and  plaster,"  he  concluded,  knocking,  at  the  same 
time,  with  the  knuckle  of  one  finger,  on  the  thin  deal  that 
separated  one  room  from  another. 

"  These  are  slight  houses,  certainly ;  but  religious  per 
sons,  of  all  people,  may  be  content  to  have  what  will  last 
their  day :  '  Non,  enim,  habemus  hie — for  we  have  not 
here  a  lasting  city,  but  we  seek  one  that  is  to  come/  " 

"  Certin,"  said  Mr.  Bangs.    "  We  ought  to,  any  how." 

The  visiting  procession  passed  now  up  the  little  creak 
ing  stairs,  the  Priest  leading ;  Mr.  Bangs  accompanying 


254  THE   NEW  PRIEST. 

him  by  going  up  two  stairs  at  a  time,  and  then,  poising 
himself  for  a  moment,  so  as  to  keep  the  same  relative  dis 
tance  between  himself  and  the  rest  of  the  party,  before 
and  behind ;  the  females  bringing  up  the  rear. 

"  This  is  '  recreation-hour,'  is  it  not,  Sister  Theresa  ?  " 
inquired  the  guide,  and,  receiving  an  answer  in  the 
affirmative,  added,  "  I  shall  have  great  pleasure,  Mr. 
Bangs,  in  giving  you  an  opportunity  of  seeing  every 
member  of  the  household,  without  any  exception ;  the  list 
is  not  as  long  as  the  roll  of  Xerxes'  army,  or  the  immortal 
Washington's.  We  number  only  five,  all  told,  I  think : 
one  sick.  Sisters  Theresa,  Agnes,  Frances,  Catharine, 
and  Bridget ;  two  professed,  as  we  call  them ;  one  lay, 
one  novice,  one  postulant." 

"  Yes :  postulate  means  wanted,  or  as'e?,  I  b'lieve ;  one 
't  you  want  to  have  join,  I  guess." 

"  Reverse  it,  and  you  have  the  meaning  of  postulant, 
exactly ;  one  that  asks  to  be  admitted." 

u  Oh,  postulant !  I's  thinkin'  of  postulate.  I  got  that 
out  of  an  old  book  o'  my  father's,  time  I  was  keepin*  com 
pany  o'  Casty — wall,  a  good  while  ago." 

"  This  room  is  what  you'll  understand,  at  once,"  open 
ing  one  to  the  left,  of  some  ten  feet  by  twelve,  with  a 
recess  at  the  further  end,  about  five  feet  deep  and  six  feet 
wide,  railed  across  even  with  what  was  left  of  the  wall ; 
which  latter  was  occupied  entirely  by  a  closed  door  on 
one  side,  and  an  open  one  on  the  other,  showing  a  little 
closet  opening  into  the  recess  before  spoken  of,  with  a 
screen  or  paling. 

"  That,  you  see,  is  an  altar ;  these  pictures  around  the 
room  are  what  we  call  stations,  used  for  marking  different 
places  to  kneel  and  pray." 

"  I   see  !  "    said    the   visitor ;    "  solemn-lookin'    place, 


A   CALL  AT  A  NUNNERY.  255 

fact ; "  then  turning  away,  as  before,  with  a  bow,  he  said 
to  Father  Nicholas,  "  this  house  stows  more,  atop,  'n  down 
b'low,  's  they  used  to  tell  o*  the  York  Dutchman  and  his 
hat," 

"  You've  an  excellent  eye,  sir.  This  room  is  taken  out 
of  the  next  house  that  I  spoke  of.  If  you'd  fancy  it,  you 
shall  see  the  whole  arrangement  of  that,  also,  by  and  by. 
Ah  !  here  is  Sister  Frances  ;  and  there  is  Sister  Ursula." 
(They  all,  except  Sister  Theresa,  stood  with  their  backs 
turned  toward  the  visitors.)  "  You  see  all  of  the  family 
but  one.  These  rooms  are  dormitories,"  opening  one  of 
the  doors  which  led  into  a  plain  room,  (like  those  with 
which  the  reader  is  familiar  enough,)  containing  several 
bare  and  hard-looking  beds,  and  little  furniture  of  any 
kind  beside. 

Mr.  Bangs  cast  a  sharp  side-glance  into  this  room,  and 
then  looked  forward  for  further  progress.  Before  the 
next  door  were  standing  several  of  the  Sisters  ;  Sister 
Theresa  explaining  that  this  was  the  chamber  of  the  sick. 

"  Please  to  let  our  visitor  see  the  inside  of  the  sick 
room,  in  which  the  gentle  hands  of  our  religious  smooth 
the  pillow  of  the  afflicted,  as  a  sister.  *  Universum  stratum 
ejus  versasti — thou  hast  turned  his  whole  couch  in  his 
sickness.'  Is  the  sufferer  awake  ?"«»the  Priest  asked,  in 
a  tender  and  sympathizing  tone. 

"  No,  Father  Nicholas,  she  has  been  sleeping  for  some 
time,  quite  heavily,"  answered,  in  a  whisper,  the  nun  who 
held  the  door,  and  who,  as  she  spoke,  threw  it  open  and 
drew  herself  aside,  as  did  Sister  Theresa,  who  had  been 
standing  beside  her  in  front  of  the  entrance. 

The  American,  not  changing  either  his  place  or  posture, 
except  to  bend  his  head,  with  unwonted  reverence,  down 
ward,  stood,  demisso  ore,  with  a  subdued  look,  bent  first 


256  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

towards  the  bed  on  which  the  mere  outline  of  the  sick 
one  could  be  seen,  and  then  gradually  turned  to  other 
objects  in  the  room.  There  was  such  perfect  silence,  that 
the  heavy,  regular  breathing  was  distinctly  heard  from 
within.  The  change  which  had  passed  upon  the  visitor, 
in  presence  of  this  scene  of  human  need  and  helplessness, 
was  very  striking,  as  he  stood  thus  subdued,  with  his 
hands  before  him,  one  holding  his  hat,  and  the  other  the 
opposite  wrist.  He  was  as  still  as  if  his  very  breathing 
were  too  loud. 

But  it  would  be  too  much  to  look  for  very  long  stand 
ing-still  or  silence  from  him  ;  and  soon,  indeed,  abruptly 
turning  to  his  reverend  guide,  he  spoke  in  an  awkward 
whisper,  considerably  above  his  breath,  which  he  had  kept 
down  so  carefully,  as  follows  : — 

"  Dono's  ye  ever  noticed  it,  about  sickness — "  when, — 
precipitated  by  an  ungainly  gesture  accompanying  his 
words, — a  shower  of  things  out  of  his  hat  dispersed  them 
selves  within  the  sickroom  and  about  the  floor  on  which 
the  company  stood.  The  accident  affected  every  member 
of  the  party,  even  those  whose  backs  were  turned.  These 
last  rustled  a  little ;  and  a  sound  almost  like  a  giggle 
came  from  some  one  or  more,  the  most  impulsive.  Sister 
Theresa  crossed  herself,  as  soon  as  she  recovered  from 
the  first  shock  of  this  rude  and  most  unnecessary  inde 
corum.  The  Priest  at  first  came  near  to  smiling,  uninten 
tionally  ;  but  instantly  visited  the  unsanctified  misadven 
ture  with  a  frown  that  gathered  over  the  still  lingering 
smile,  like  a  dark  cloud  above  the  streak  of  sunset-sky. 
The  short  word  "  bah !  "  escaped  his  lips. 

The  author  of  all  this  commotion, — interrupted  in  his 
well-meant  speech,  glancing  round  the  company,  brushing 
up  one  side  of  his  hair  over  the  bald,  and  saying,  "  Do 


A  CALL  AT  A  NUNNEKY.  257 

tell !  wall,  don't  stir,"  all  at  the  same  instant,  almost,  and 
before  any  one  had  had  time  to  recover, — dove  forward 
after  the  most  remote  articles  of  his  scattered  property. 

In  doing  this  he  made  little  more  noise  than  a  cat,  and 
was  just  about  as  expeditious  in  his  motions,  following  a 
lead-pencil  to  one  side  of  the  chamber  and  a  penknife  to 
the  other,  not  leaving  behind  the  habit  of  his  nation,  even 
in  this  unexpected  visit;  but  drawing  near  and  casting 
a  glance,  in  passing,  at  a  colored  engraving  of  a  saint, 
as  very  likely  he  would  have  looked  in  a  glass,  had  there 
been  one  in  the  place,  which  there  was  not. 

The  handkerchief  and  an  outlandish-looking  news 
paper,  which  had  dropped  down  in  the  passage-way  and 
remained  there,  lay  where  they  had  fallen,  when  he  came 
out,  and  then  resumed  their  former  place.  "  Hope  ye 
wun't  think  hard  o'  my  hat,"  he  whispered,  loudly,  by 
way  of  reconciling  matters,  "  't  don't  gen'lly  act  like  that. 
However,  b'lieve  no  harm's  done.  Don't  let  me  keep 
you,  sir,  awaiting,  and  the  ladies." 

The  remainder  of  the  visit  was  soon  dispatched.  Father 
Nicholas  appearing  not  less  kind,  if  less  cordial  than  be 
fore,  and  saying, — after  a  brief  exhibition  of  the  adjoining 
room, — "  You  have  now  seen  the  whole,  sir,  and  I  hope 
you'll  remember  your  visit  with  pleasure.  I  told  you  at 
the  outset  that  you  were  treated  with  very  rare  con 
sideration,  because  I  didn't  believe  that  in  your  case  it 
would  be  thrown  away.  I  shall  be  happy  to  give  you 
any  further  information  which  may  be  in  my  power." 

"  Very  much  obleeged  to  you,  'm  sure,  sir.  'T's  done 
me  good.  Jest  what  I  like.  Come  and  see  for  m'self 
and  ben  treated  like  a  gentleman.  'F  't  'adn't  ben  for 
that — wall,  '  accidents  will  occur,  you  know,'  's  the  fellah 
said  once.  'Wish  all  success  to  the  ladies,  adoin'  good, 

VOL.    I.  17 


258  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

and  I'll  jest  go  straight  to  the  other  priest, — that's  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Terence's  or  O'Toole's, — and  do  a  little  busi 
ness  'th  him,  'f  I  find  I  can." 

As  Father  Nicholas  and  his  guest  withdrew,  Sister 
Theresa  was  heard  saying,  "We  will  now  go  to  our 
office,  sisters,  and  we  have  something  to  make  up."  The 
machinery  of  the  establishment  (after  the  obstruction  had 
been  removed)  began  to  go  as  before.  We  go  with  the 
retiring  party  as  far  as  the  outside. 


OTHER  SUSPICIOUS  PERSONS.  259 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

THE    MAGISTRATE    DEALS    WITH    OTHER    SUSPICIOUS 
PERSONS. 

I  HE  world  was  going  on  in  Peterport  also.  Public 
suspicion  had,  of  course,  repeatedly  touched 
Father  Debree,  but  had  never  been  able  to 
fasten  on  him.  One  or  two  overwise  bodies  undoubtedly 
thought  him  the  more  dangerous,  because  (as  they  said) 
"  he  was  so  deep,  and  made  people  think  he  was  harm 
less  ; "  but  almost  every  one  (with  Skipper  George)  ab 
solutely  discharged  him,  before  the  third  day.  To  have 
found  out  what  was  his  painful  and  mysterious  connection 
with  Mrs.  Barre,  would  have  been  a  great  deal  for  the 
public. — It  did  not  yet  appear. 

He  was  seldom  seen  in  the  harbor,  and  was  soon  little 
spoken  of;  the  fever  too,  in  Merchants'  Cove,  which 
killed  no  one,  ceased  to  occupy  men's  tongues,  or  the 
tongues  of  their  wives.  Mrs.  Barre's  sorrow  and  her 
mystery  were  left  to  silence,  while  steadily  the  general 
thought  busied  itself  with  following  the  lost  maiden. 

James  Urston,  it  was  said,  had  been  with  the  priests 
at  Bay- Harbor ;  but  it  was  also  said,  that  he  was  threat 
ened  with  excommunication,  or  some  great  penalty,  and 
public  opinion  naturally  sympathized  with  the  bereaved 
lover  and  the  disaffected  Roman  Catholic,  (if  he  was  dis- 


200  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

affected  ;) — the  public  eye  still  looked  darkly  at  Mrs.  Cal- 
loran,  and  beyond. 

Mrs.  Calloran  herself  had  said, — very  truly, — that 
"  there  were  other  old  women  in  Peterport,"  and  the  hands 
of  justice,  again  feeling  about,  grasped  Granny  Palasher 
and  held  her  to  an  examination.  They  were  to  have 
laid  hold  on  Mr.  Bangs,  (this  time,)  and  Ladford ;  but 
these  had  both  slipped  between,  like  other  little  men  of 
old  time,  between  those  of  another  giant.  Of  Ladford's 
movements  nothing  was  reported ;  but  of  the  American, 
William  Frank  had  this  to  say,  That  he  had  sent  some 
important  communication  to  the  vice-consul  of  his  coun 
try,  at  St.  John's,  and  had  left  the  harbor  for  parts  un 
known. 

The  magistrate  made  little  out  of  the  Granny,  except 
that  her  name  was  properly  Ann  Pilchard,  and  that  the 
public  suffrage  was  with  her  when  she  asserted  that  she 
"  had  an  occupation  and  knowed  it  'most  so  good  as  some 
other  folks  did  theirs,  mubbe."  Having  in  the  course  of 
a  day  elicited  so  much,  he  adjourned  his  court. 

Awaking  from  the  sleep  which  had  settled  down  upon 
a  mind  and  body,  faded  with  the  long  day's  and  night's 
work,  which  went  before  and  followed  the  last  adjourn 
ment  of  his  "  court,"  and  yet  another  full  day's  painful 
deliberation,  he  was  informed  by  his  servant,  that  there 
was  a  paper  on  the  front-door,  and  that  "he"  (the 
paper)  "looked  mostly  like  a  print,  seemunly."  The 
color  rose  in  Mr.  Naughton's  cheeks,  and  his  fingers 
trembled  as  he  proceeded  to  examine  this  new  decoration 
of  his  house.  He  evidently  suspected  it. 

He  walked  leisurely  and  stopped  at  more  than  one 
thing  in  the  way,  and  when  he  got  out  of  doors,  looked 
up  at  the  sky  and  down  at  some  vegetation  on  which  he 


OTHER  SUSPICIOUS  PERSONS.        261 

had  expended  a  great  deal  of  manure,  before  approaching 
the  object  which  had  stimulated  the  curiosity  of  his  maid. 
When  he  did  at  length  deliberately  turn  to  view  it,  he 
saw  a  huge  broadside  of  wrapping-paper,  bearing  the 
words  (in  charcoal,) 

"  the  FaytFul  megistrun." 

He  certainly  looked  fateful,  (as  the  poster  uninten 
tionally  called  him,)  when  he  had  read  this  thing. 

"  Ha !  "  said  he,  "  parties  may  burn  their  fingers,  if 
they  don't  look  out ; "  and  he  conspicuously, — that  all  the 
neighborhood  or  the  world  might  see  it, — tore  the  paper 
first  into  long  strips  and  then  into  little  bits,  which  he 
gave  by  instalments  to  the  winds.  He  then  walked  delib 
erately  up  and  down  in  front  of  his  house,  turning  his 
face,  (considerably  reddened  by  the  activity  of  his  mind,) 
frequently  to  the  road,  with  an  "  Hm ! "  as  if  to  show  the 
world  that  there  he  was,  unmoved,  and  ready  to  be  the 
mark  of  any  animadversion. 

"  Si  fractus  illdbatur  orbis  (sedente  ipso,  sc.,  in  cathedra), 
ImpaviJum  ferient  ruina." 

So  for  some  time  he  aired  himself,  before  going  in  to 
breakfast. 

That  the  impersonation  of  Justice  in  Peterport  was  not 
weary  of  its  efforts,  was  soon  made  manifest.  Gilpin, 
the  constable,  hinted  the  propriety  of  having  Mrs.  Cal- 
loran  up  again,  and  giving  her  a  "  hauling-over." 

This  proposition  the  magistrate  disposed  of  summarily, 
by  a  legal  aphorism  :  "  A  person  can't  be  tried  twice  for 
the  same  offence,  Mr.  Gilpin,  according  to  English  law ; " 
and  he  forestalled  an  argument  over  which  the  constable's 
eye  was  twinkling,  and  which  he  was  just  making  up  his 
mouth  to  utter,  by  putting  into  that  officer's  hand  a  war 
rant,  and  saying  authoritatively, — 


262  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"You'll  see  that  Mrs.  Frank  is  brought  before  me 
with  all  diligence." 

The  constable's  eye  twinkled  as  much  as  ever ;  and, 
putting  the  writ  in  his  pocket,  before  he  went  forth  upon 
his  errand,  he  made  a  new  suggestion  : — 

"  She'll  never  be  able  to  stand  it,  sir,  will  she,  poor  old 
thing  ?  she's  had  a  good  deal  o'  worriment  over  this  al 
ready,  they  say." 

"  Justice  is  absolute,  Mr.  Gilpin ;  if  you  find  her  health 
impaired,  you  will  report  it." 

So  the  constable  went  about  his  business. 

Granny  Frank  was  at  the  time  upon  a  few  days'  visit 
to  her  grand-daughter,  Jesse  Barbury  Hills's  wife,  and 
thither  the  constable  proceeded,  to  subpo3na  her,  or  rather 
fetch  her  with  him  to  the  magistrate. 

There  was  a  little  commotion  in  the  house  as  Gilpin 
came  to  it,  which  prevented  his  tap  at  the  door  from 
being  heard,  and  he  walked  in,  accordingly,  unbidden. 

A  child  or  two  were  playing  in  the  sitting-room ;  but 
all  the  older  members  of  the  family  had  drawn  together 
in  a  bedroom  at  the  side.  The  constable  came  silently 
across,  and  was  not  noticed ;  for  Jesse  and  his  wife,  and 
Isaac  Maffen  were  busy  about  a  bed,  in  which  the  shriv 
elled  and  exhausted  old  woman  lay,  heaving  long,  slow 
sighs  for  breath. 

"Jes-se, — child — ,"•  she  was  saying,  with  longer  than 
her  usual  intervals  between  the  syllables,  and  more  feebly 
than  usual, — "  un-der — my — rump  ! — heave — I — up, — I 
— wants — to — go — high  " 

Jesse  Hill,  as  dutifully  as  a  child,  and  as  tenderly  as 
might  be,  did  her  bidding ;  and  raised  the  slight  body  up. 

"  She's  gone !  "  said  Gilpin,  as  he  scanned  her  face 
"  that's  her  last  word  in  this  life,  you  may  depend !  " 


OTHER  SUSPICIOUS  PERSONS.        263 

"  Do  'ee  think  so  ?  "  asked  Jesse ;  "  why,  she's  sca'ce 
got  through  wi'  talkun  !  " 

"  Next  time  she  speaks  it  won't  be  here,"  said  the  con 
stable  gravely. 

"  God  rest  her,  then  ! "  said  her  grandson-in-law ;  "  I'm 
glad  we  was  all  w'itun  upon  her  when  she  goed,  any 
how." 

"  It's  good  one  trouble  for  nothing  was  saved  her ! " 
said  the  constable. 

So  they  laid  her  down  again,  decently,  upon  the  bed, 
and  sent  for  the  different  members  of  the  family,  while 
the  constable  lingered,  without  mentioning  the  errand 
upon  which  he  had  come. 

"  What  have  you  got  here,  Jesse  ?  "  said  he,  as  his  eye 
caught  sight  of  a  parcel  standing  on  the  mantle-shelf. 

"  Mr.  Banks  give  it  to  I  to  bring  up,  for  un,  from  B'y- 
Harbor." 

"  Why,  it's  for  the  Parson,  man ;  why  didn't  you  deliver 
it?" 

"  He  on'y  asked  I  to  bring  it,"  said  the  trusty  deposi 
tary  ;  "  an'  so  I  kept  it,  tull  'e'd  call,  'isself.  I  never 
knowed  what  it  was." 

"  Well,  bad  readin'  '11  never  spoil  you,  Jesse.  How 
long  was  the  old  lady  sick  ?  " 

"  She  never  was  sick ;  not  that  we  knowed  of;  but  just 
visitun,  an'  layun  on  the  bed,  as  comfortable  as  could  be, 
tull  just  a  few  minutes  sunce  ; — as  it  might  be,  two-three 
minutes  afore  you  corned  in." 

"  Well,  she's  had  enough  of  it,  if  she  was  ready.  She 
might  have  had  too  much,  if  she'd  staid  longer.  Is  Naath 
home?" 

u  No ;  we'll  wait  the  funeral  tull  Monday,  I  suppose,  to 
give  un  a  chance  to  come  back." 


264  THE  NEW  PEIEST. 

The  constable  took  his  leave,  and  went  to  make  his 
return.  Jesse  went  too. 

Both  the  men  started  back,  and  made  a  reverential 
salutation,  as  they  met  Mrs.  Barre,  on  coming  into  the 
road.  Her  look  was  more  troubled  than  usual. 

"  It's  easier  partin'  a  gran'niother  than  it  is  a  husband 
or  a  child,"  said  the  constable,  shortly  after. 

"All  so,  Mr.  Gulpin,"  said  Jesse,  "  that's  a  clear  case  ; 
you've  got  to  part  they.  I  hard  Parson  Kingman's  wife 
say,  '  death  is  an  alteration,  surely,  an'  can'  be  helped.' " 

There  were  some  loiterers  about  the  magistrate's  prem 
ises  ; — people  that  can  always  spare  time  for  public  affairs ; 
and  whom,  now,  the  mission  of  the  constable  had  stimu 
lated  to  strong  expectancy.  The  magistrate  was  im 
mersed  in  mental  and  manual  occupation:  reading  and 
writing. 

"  There  was  some  one  to  summons  her  before  I,  sir," 
said  Gilpin. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  magistrate,  nervously ; 
for  though  he  got  along  very  well  with  plenty  of  sea- 
room,  the  prospect  of  a  collision  or  conflict  of  jurisdictions 
was  a  new  thing  to  him. 

"  She's  dead,"  said  the  constable. 

"  Dead  !  Why,  that  can't  be,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Naughton, 
"  she  was  alive  yesterday." 

"And  so  she  was  the  minute  she  died,  sir ;  but  she 
won't  be  again,  in  one  while,  unless  the  Day  of  Judgment 
comes." 

The  comparison,  so  strongly  drawn  by  the  Almighty 
between  his  might  and  the  stipendiary's  "absolute  jus 
tice,"  affected  Mr.  Naughton  considerably. 

He  went  to  the  window,  (the  public  being  outside,)  and 
through  it  spoke, — 


OTHER  SUSPICIOUS  PERSONS.        265 

"  I  am  given  to  understand,"  said  he,  "  that  Mrs.  Abi 
gail  Frank,  commonly  called  Old  Granny  Frank,  who 
had  been  summoned  as  a  witness,  is  dead.  I  shall, 
therefore,  prorogue  this  court,  as  is  customary,  until  after 
the  funeral.  Mr.  Gilpin,  this  warrant  is  dismissed ; "  and 
he  solemnly  bowed  away  the  constable  and  a  few  of  the 
more  adventurous  neighbors  who  had  got  a  place  within. 

"  Good ! "  said  Gilpin,  as  soon  as  they  were  in  the 
king's  highway ;  "  I  hope  the  next  thing,  he'll  hear  the 
Emperor  of  Egypt's  dead,  and  adjourn  for  a  twelve 
month." 

The  people  dispersed,  (to  better  occupations,  perhaps,) 
and  Granny  Palasher  having  certified  herself  of  the  fact, 
from  Jesse,  commented  upon  it  as  many  another  old 
woman  has  commented  upon  a  like  case : — 

"  Poor  thing !  she  alw'ys  seemed  to  ail  o'  somethun, 
these  few  years  back  ;  but  I  do  wonder  what  'ave  atookt 
she,  at  last ! " 

From  the  magistrate's,  Gilpin  made  his  way  to  the 
Minister's. 

"  The  '  Spring-Bird '  has  sailed,  sir,"  said  he ;  "  o'  Tues 
day  night,  Jesse  says ;  so  Cap'n  Nolesworth's  off." 

"Is  he?"  said  Mr.  Wellon.  "I'm  sorry  he  couldn't 
have  staid  to  help  us  clear  this  up  !  " 

The  "  little  mite  of  a  bundle,"  as  the  sender  had  desig 
nated  it,  proved,  when  developed,  to  be  a  quaint-looking 
letter  on  a  foolscap  sheet,  addressed  to  "  Mister  Wellon, 
the  English  episcopalian  minister  at  Peterport,  to  the 
kindness  of  Mister  Barbury,  with  Dispatch." 

The  Minister,  having  read  it  with  varying  expressions 
in  his  face  of  surprise,  amusement,  and  interest,  handed 
it  to  the  constable,  saying, — 

"  You  seem  to  be  concerned  in  this." 


266  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

The  latter  took  it,  with  a  look  of  astonishment,  and 
having  prefaced  his  work  by  the  remark,  "  Well,  that's  a 
queer-looking  concern,  any  way,"  proceeded  to  read  aloud, 
in  a  subdued  voice,  and  here  and  there  with  difficulty,  as 
follows : — 

"  Mister  Wellon,  Sir : — 

"  Thinking  you  may  be  aware  of  a  little  surcumstance 
that  happened  here,  and  knowing  your  concern  in  people's 
souls,  is  my  reason  for  writing,  to  let  you  know  what, 
maybe,  will  prove  interesting.  You  see  I  took  a  notion 
to  look  into  this  Holy  Roman  Religion,  a  might,  while  I's 
about  it,  and  not  having  any  thing  partiklar  to  do  till  fall 
business  commences.  I  think  best  to  inform  friends  and 
all  concerned,  /  may  be  converted,  and  I  may  not :  sup 
pose  it  eh1  be  according  to.  I  have  ben  in  one  of  those 
Nunneries,  ye  may  call  it.  Never  saw  any  thing  the 
kind  managed  better,  in  my  life.  Sister  Theresy  is  as 
genteel  a  lady  as  I  should  wish  to  see.  A  little  accident 
occurred  while  I's  holding  inspection,  as  you  may  say. 
My  hat,  you  may  have  taken  notice  to  it,"  ("  Well,  this  is 
a  pretty  fellow ! "  said  Gilpin,)  "  it  went  and  come  right 
out  of  my  hand,  away  into  the  middle  of  the  floor,  in  a 
room  where  they  had  a  young  lady  sick.  Most  every 
body  carries  a  few  notions  in  his  hat,  I  guess,  and  so  I 
had  a  pocket-handkerchief,  and  a  knife,  and  a  razor,  and 
a  comb,  and  what  not  ?  and  they  all  went  sescatter.  Pen 
knife,  one  of  your  Congress  knives,  present  from  honor 
able  Tieberius  Sesar  Thompson,  Member  Congress,  went 
away  off  under  a  picture ;  see  it  was  "  Saint  Lucy,"  right 
opposite  the  bed;  same  name  of  your  Miss  Barbury: 
pretty  well  executed,  I  sho'd  judge  ;  only  a  might  too  red 
in  the  face,  supposing  she  fasted  as  I  should  say  she  had 
ought  to,  if  she  was  a  Nun.  Lucky  I  didn't  wake  the 


OTHER  SUSPICIOUS  PERSONS.        267 

sick,  but,  most  likely,  she'd  had  medcine,  as  I  took  notice 
to  her  breathing,  ruther  heavy  and  dead.  Should  judge 
they  kep  her  ruther  covered  up.  All  I  could  see  was 
jest  an  attorn  of  her  face  and  a  might  of  black  hair :  should 
say  she  ought  to  have  fresh  air.  I  thought  of  the  short 
ness  and  uncertainty  of  human  life — seemed  to  be  about 
eighteen  nigh  as  I  could  judge;  but  Father  Nicholas, 
they  call  him,  that  showed  me  round,  seemed  to  feel  bad 
about  the  accedent,  and  I  come  away,  and  took  a  cour 
teous  leave. 

Sir,  I  needent  say  to  you  that  writing  about  religious 
experience  is  private  and  confidential,  without  it's  a  friend 
like  Mr.  Gilpin,  the  constable.  Shouldent  like  to  hurt 
the  feelings  of  the  old  gentleman,  that's  Father  O'Toole, 
who  is  willing  to  take  unbounded  pains  ateaching.  I  told 
him  if  he  ever  had  occasion  to  call  on  the  Governor  of 
Massachusetts,  to  mention  my  name,  and  say  Mr.  Bangs 
of  Needham  that  used  to  be.  Believing,  sir,  you  know 
how  to  act  about  correspondents  of  a  confedential  char 
acter,  I  remain,  Yours  truly,  and  to  command, 

ELNATHAN  BANGS." 

"  Well ! "  exclaimed  Gilpin,  looking  up,  with  his  one 
eye  twinkling,  when  he  had  finished  the  reading,  "  if  that 
isn't  a  letter  and  a  half! " 

"These  Americans  have  strange  ways,"  said  Mr. 
Wellon ;  "  but  do  you  notice  any  thing  particularly  in 
his  letter?" 

"About  the  sick  girl  ?  and  the  black  hair  ?  and  about 
eighteen  years  old  ?  "  asked  Gilpin,  putting  these  things 
together  with  a  directness  that  would  not  have  been  un 
worthy  of  a  policeman  of  abundant  practice  ;  "  yes,  sir ; 
and  '  St.  Lucy  ! '  How  should  that  happen  ?  Or  do  you 
think  Mr.  Bangs  put  that  in  ?  " 


268  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

«  Oh,  no,"  said  Mr.  Wellon ;  "  that's  just  what  they  would 
do,  very  likely,  if  they  were  trying  to  make  a  convert ; 
they'd  hang  up  a  portrait  of  her  patron-saint,  as  they  call 
it.  All  this  confirms  our  suspicion.  Thank  God  it  comes 
just  in  time.  I  never  thought  of  the  American  making 
himself  so  useful." 

"Dropping  his  hat!"  said  the  constable.  "If  that 
isn't  one  way  of  gitting  into  a  place!  That  is  a  joke! 
'Holy  Roman  Religion!'  There's  a  convert  for  'em! 
But  that  sick  girl " 

"  That's  a  pity ! "  said  the  Minister,  thoughtfully, — the 
constable  eyeing  him  curiously  the  while.  "  If  we  could 
use  his  evidence " 

"  I  take  it,  sir,  we  can  use  it  by  the  time  we  want  it." 

"  Ay ;  but  in  the  mean  time  this  poor  man  will  get  en 
tangled,  perhaps,  beyond  help." 

The  constable  still  looked  curiously  and  inquiringly. 

"  The  maid,  sir  ?  Lucy  Barbury  ?  "  suggested  he,  by 
way  of  amendment  to  the  word  "  man,"  in  the  Minister's 
sentence. 

"  No  ;  I  was  thinking  of  this  American, — Mr.  Bangs." 

"  But  it  won't  do  him  any  harm,  sir ;  will  it  ?  "  asked 
Gilpin,  still  puzzled. 

The  Minister  answered  : — 

"To  be  sure,  he  wasn't  a  churchman  before;  but  I 
should  be  very  sorry,  nevertheless,  to  see  him  become  a 
papist.  If  he  should  see  this  plot,  it  might  cure  him." 

"  He  sees  it  fast  enough,  sir,  or  I'm  much  mistaken," 
said  the  constable. 

"  But,"  answered  Mr.  Wellon,  "  I  can't  think  he  under 
stands  the  whole  thing  ;  and  if  he  could  be  rescued " 

"  From  Father  O'Toole,  sir  ?  The  Yankee  '11  take  care 
of  himself,  I'll  go  bail.  We  needn't  trouble  ourselves 


OTHER  SUSPICIOUS  PERSONS.  269 

about  saving  him,  sir,  any  more  than  a  fish  from  drown 
ing.  If  he  isn't  up  to  any  of  'em,  he's  no  Yankee.  It's 
my  opinion,  they'll  find  it  slow  work  converting  him." 

The  Minister  smiled,  good-humoredly,  as  his  solicitude 
for  Mr.  Bangs  was  blown  away.  "It's  strange  that  he 
should  get  in  there,"  said  he. 

"  They've  been  too  cunning,  and  not  cunning  enough," 
answered  the  constable.  "  They  thought  he'd  tell  every 
body  he'd  been  all  over  the  place,  and  people  would  think 
it  must  be  all  right,  if  they  weren't  afraid  to  let  un  in. 
Father  Nicholas,  there,  thought  he  could  keep  un  safe 
enough  ;  but  he  didn't  think  about  his  hat !  " — 

So,  this  evening,  the  old  suspicion,  setting  towards  Bay- 
Harbor,  and  the  nuns  and  priests  there,  possessed  the 
Minister  and  his  council  more  strongly  than  it  had  done 
since  Lucy  Barbury  was  lost. 


270  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

MR.    BANGS    HAS    AN   INTERVIEW   WITH    THE    HEAD    OP 
THE    MISSION. 

)E  left  Mr.  Bangs  at  Bay-Harbor,  in  charge  of 
Father  Nicholas,  coming  from  the  nunnery, 
which  he  had  just  inspected.  Under  the  same 
sacerdotal  guidance,  he  walked  towards  the  priests'  quar 
ters. 

They  passed  into  the  hall,  Father  Nicholas  leading,  and 
awaited,  next,  the  result  of  the  latter's  knocking  thrice 
upon  an  inner  door. 

The  word  "  Enter,"  surrounded,  so  to  speak,  by  a  sound 
of  bustle, — much  as  a  word  is  written  by  painters  in  a  sur 
rounding  of  cloud, — called  them  to  the  "  dignitary's  "  pres 
ence.  He  sat,  sedate,  in  his  wide  chair, — his  dress  care 
fully  arranged  in  his  style  of  state, — and  was  intent,  in 
studious  zeal,  upon  a  book.  Looking  up  gravely  from 
his  work,  he  fidgeted  a  little,  trying  to  wear  a  calm,  high 
dignity,  in  waiting  for  an  explanation  of  the  visit, — 
(which,  by  the  way,  it  may  be  thought  he  understood 
beforehand,) — and  ended  with  a  kindly  bustle  of  bringing 
chairs. 

"This  gentleman,  Reverend  Father  Terence,  is  an 
American,  descended  from  an  eminent  stock  in  the  re 
public " 


ME.  BANGS  HAS  AN  INTERVIEW.  271 

Mr.  Bangs, — who  sat  with  his  right  ankle  resting  on 
his  left  knee,  his  chair  now  and  then  rearing  under  him, 
like  a  trained  horse,  and  coming  down  again  on  all  fours, 
— said,  meekly :  "  Oh,  some  of  'em  've  got  their  coats-'f- 
arms,  'n'  what  not ;  that's  beyond  me  ;  but  I  know  jest  as 
wall  who  my  gran'ther  was  as  can  be.  You  know,  I  told 
ye  about  the  deacon — Parsimmon  Tarbox — on  mother's 
side ;  but,  on  father's  side,  they  were  Bangses  all  the 
way  up  to  Noah's  flood,  's  fur  's  I  know ;  Jedidiah,  and 
Jehoshaphat,  and  Jeshimon,  and  Joshuy,  and  what  not, 
— church-members  and  s'lectmen,  (some  of  'em,) — an'  so 
on,  all  down." 

"  Atavis  regibus  ;  they  are  all  kings  and  sovereigns  in 
that  favored  country,"—  ("  Cer-tin,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,) — 
"and  he  professes  a  desire  to  be  acquainted  with  the 
Catholic  Faith,  Father  Terence,  and,  indeed,  a  readiness 
to  be  converted.  I  bring  him,  of  course,  to  yourself," — 
(the  dignitary  bowed,  with  as  smooth  and  steady  a  swing 
as  that  of  a  pendulum,  and  said  "  Of  coorse  !  ")— "  know 
ing  that  if  there  was  any  one  to  do  extraordinary  work, 
that  one  was  the  very  Reverend  Father  O'Toole ; " — 
(again  a  smooth,  slow  bow  from  the  dignitary,  who  spoke 
thus  :)— 

"  And,  by  a  strange  forchuitous  accident,  what  should 
I  be  engaged  upon  at  this  identical,  present  moment,  but 
a  very  abstruse  work  upon  that  very  country^ !  It's  a 
rare  work,  too,  I'm  thinkin'.  I've  here  the  second  vol 
ume,  which  I  procured  with  great  difficulty  through 
Barney  Baine, — (did  ye  know  Barney  ?)  and  he  had  but 
the  one.  I'm  not  sure  is  there  another  copy  iv  it  ex- 
tant." 

"  You're  quite  recondite  in  the  authorities  you  consult. 
I  should  have  thought  that  credible  writers  on  that  coun- 


272  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

try  could  be  found  with  less  trouble,  and  in  a  complete 
form." 

"  Ay ;  but,  d'ye  see  ?  it's  but  little  they've  known  of 
writing  and  the  like  o'  that, — those  Amerikyins, — until 
those  late  years,  (the  most  o'  thim,  that  is,)  being  all 
mostly  savage  Indgins,  I  suppose,  (with  a  small  sprinkling 
of  Europyins  and  Irish,  certainly.)  Some  o'  thim  took 
to  learning,  I  suppose,  naturally,  for  the  man  here's  got  a 
name  of  his  own  that  would  puzzle  a  Tom'hawk  himself, 
— (that's  one  of  their  tribes,  d'ye  know  ?  as  they  call 
them.)  To  be  sure,  the  most  of  it  seems  to  be  in  plain 
English,  surely ;  but  then,  d'ye  see  ?  the  great  learning 
that's  here,  undoubtedly,  all  in  the  original  tongue,"  said 
Father  O'Toole,  shutting  the  book. 

"  Have  you  mastered  the  i  original,'  then,  already,  in 
your  retirement,  and  without  a  teacher  ?  What  a  figure 
you'd  have  made  in  the  Sacred  Congregation,  or  in  our 
College  at  Rome,  to  be  sure !  " 

The  portly  personage  complimented  thus,  rose  up  to 
put  away  the  book,  while  the  younger  priest,  with  a  grave 
courtesy,  followed  him,  and,  asking  permission  to  look  at 
the  learned  treatise,  secured  it,  when  laid  down,  and  read 
aloud  "  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,"  as  the  author's  name, 
and  added,  as  comment,  "  What  a  Dutch-sounding  name 
it  is  !  " 

"  Ye  may  say  that;  and  ye'll  remember,  be-the-by,  the 
Dutch  has  much  trade  with  the  Indies  and  the  neighbor 
ing  parts,  and  has  had,  those  many  years.  It's  to  be 
feared  they've  been  teaching  them  their  own  religion,  too, 
mostly." 

The  other  inquired  : — 

"  Do  you  find  this  writer  orthodox  ?  The  name  sounds 
as  if  it  ought,  fairly,  to  be  found  in  the  Index :  *  Diedrichius 


MR.  BANGS  HAS   AN  INTERVIEW.  273 

Knickerbocker.  Storia  di  Nuova  York,  quacumque  lingua 
impressa,' " 

"  Oh,  it's  for  reference,  just,  that  I  keep  them, — books 
o'  that  kind !  It's  a  learn'd  work, — it's  a  very  learn'd 
work,  this,  doubtless,  in  its  way, — but  not  sound  in 
the  one  point.  They're  to  stand  up  in  a  library,  and  it's 
not  too  often  that  a  busy  man,  like  meself,  can  get  a  look 
at  them.  It's  only  dipping  into  it,  that  I've  done,  just  to 
get  at  the  marrow  of  it.  But  here  is  our  excellent  friend 
ready  to  throw  behind  him  all  the  Dutch  and  Indyan  re 
ligion," — ("  Cer-tin,"  assented  the  American,) — "and  to 
take  up  the  old  anncient  faith." 

"  Wall,  I'm  looking  that  way,  to  see  what  I  can  make 
of  it,"  explained  the  American.  "It's  conviction,  's 
much  's  any  thing,  that  I  want,  I  ruther  guess.  There's 
that  hymn, — I  do'no  the  Latin  of  it, — (anyhow  it's  seven 
hunderd  forty-seven  in  '  Revival  Rhapsodies ' :) — 

When  I  can  leave  this  load  o'  clay, 

And  stretch  my  limbs,  and  soar  away, 
And  breathe  the  tipper  air; 

Then  let  the  world  go  all  to  smash ; 

I'll  lift  my  head  above  the  crash, 
And  take  fast  hold  by  prayer.' 

"  The  way  Elder  Tertullus  Taylor  used  to  give  that  out 
at  Eastham  Camp-Meeting  *  would  do  a  body  good. 
There !  You  know,  he  w's  a  long  kind  of  a  slobsided 
chap,  an'  when  he  come  to  '  load  o'  clay,'  he  wriggled  his 
shoulders,  you  see,  so  fashion,"  (doing  it  as  he  sat,) 
"  an'  pulled  an'  tugged  't  his  coat,  like  all  possessed ;  but 
when  he  got  to  '  stretch  my  limbs,  and  soar  away,'  why 

*  This  exposition,  used  by  Mr.  Bangs  at  the  period  of  our  story, 
may  give  archaeologists  an  unexpected  hint  as  to  the  age  of  the  name 
and  the  thing. 

VOL.  i.  18 


274  THE  NEW  PRIEST 

the  most  I  can  compare  it  to  was, wall,  he  up  'th  this 

arm,  'th  the  book  in  it,  an'  then  t'other,  an'  kicked  down 
his  legs,  jest  's  if  he  was  goin*  to  stick  the  hymn-book 
away  up  through  somew'er's,  an'  go  right  up  after  it. 
Why,  all  the  old  women,  'most,  put  right  out  to  git  hold 
of  him  by  the  heels,  or  what  not,  singin'  '  Glory ! '  jest  as 
tight  's  they  could  stretch. But,  as  you  say," — (no 
body  but  himself  said  any  thing,) — "  this  ain't  the  ques 
tion  now.  Question  is :  What's  about  the  shortest  an' 
quickest  way  o'  gitting  at  this  Catholic  religion  ?  's  you 
may  say." 

In  the  presence  of  this  active  elocutionist,  Father  Ter 
ence  looked,  for  the  moment,  as  if  the  world  that  he  be 
longed  to  had  been  knocked  away  somewhere,  and  he 
himself  had  tumbled  down  among  strange  things  and 
people.  Of  course  his  apparatus,  argumentative,  was  as 
useless  as  a  battery  of  cannon  against  a  freshet  or  other 
incongruity.  He  almost  instinctively  glanced  around  at 
the  odd  volume  of  Knickerbocker's  heretical  History, 
which  the  Holy  Father  (Sanctissimus  Noster^)  has  put 
upon  the  prohibitory  Index,  but  which  he  had  had  in  hand, 
before  this  unusual  encounter. 

Father  Nicholas,  for  whatever  cause,  adapted  himself 
at  once  to  the  character  of  the  man,  and  said,  with  grave 
appreciation  of  the  American's  performance,  (which  had 
been  given  with  as  thorough  zest  as  if  he  had  had  a  sly 
fancy  for  astonishing  the  old  priest,)  "  That  seems  to  be 
to  the  life,  Mr.  Bangs.  You  appropriate  the  religion  you 
belong  to  and  make  it  your  own ;  and  if  you  once  take 
the  true  faith  fairly  in,  no  doubt  will  naturalize  that,  also. 
It's  just  the  thing  for  an  independent  thinker." 

"  Guess  I  should ;  make  no  kind  o'  doubt  of  it ;  and 
that's  the  way.  Your  folks  '11  find  it  out  one  o'  these  days, 


MR.  BANGS   HAS  AN  INTERVIEW.  275 

and  do  according.  I  tell  ye  what  it  is :  't'll  take  a  pretty 
smart  chap,  and  he'll  have  to  unbutton  his  galluses,  to 
ketch  our  real  Yankees.  What's  the  use  o'  talkin'  about 
winkin'  madonnys  or  maid  of  honors,  or  what  you  may 
call  'em,  to  fellahs  that  think  any  thing  o'  the  value  o'  time. 
Why,  lor',  jes'  to  consider  that  the  Almighty,  't  knows 
what  a  man's  soul  's  wuth,  should  set  down  to  that  sort 

o'  work  ! 'T  looks  's  though  'twa'n't  consistent.  Don't 

it,  now  ?  " 

"  You  see,  Father  Terence,  how  the  uncatholic  mind 
goes  in  the  same  path  with  the  heathen,"  said  Father 
Nicholas,  solemnly,  this  is  the  '  nisi  dignus  vindice  nodus ' 
of  the  great  Roman  critic." 

"  Ye  see  they  hev  to  be  taught  and  reasoned  down  to 
it  (or  up  to  it,  'ft  suits  better,)  b'fore  they  can  swaller 
what  you  may  say  's  the  truth,  'n  that  department  o' 
science.  After  a  man's  once  made  up  his  mind,  then  't's 
no  odds  ;  give  him  punkin  and  tell  him  it's  custard,  'n', 
'f  ye  want  him  to,  he'll  swear  to't,  an'  cuss  all  out-doors, 
'f  they  make  'ny  bones  about  it ;  why,  'f  you  c'n  only 
convert  'em,  yer  'nlightened  'mericans  '11  make  the  greatest 
foo — that  is,  fullahs  for  Catholics,  agoin.  They'll  be  jest 
the  fullahs  for  mirycles,  'n'  imyges,.'n'  saints,  an'  what  not. 
Why,  take  me,  say.  Tie  a  han'k'ch'f  'crost  here,"  (set 
ting  down  his  hat,  and  going  through  the  motions  with  his 
hands,)  "  and  then  jest  make  me  think  '  now  you  can't 
see,  and  I  can  ;  so  you  jest  see  what  I  see,'  and  then  tell 
me  there's  a  picture  't  painted  itself  'n'  I  take  it  f 'r  law 
V  gospil." 

Hereabouts  Mr.  O'Toole  seemed  to  have  found  his  feet 
again,  and  to  know  where  he  was,  and  he  joined  the  con 
versation  with  an  assurance  to  the  American  that  he  was 
"well-pleased  to  hear  him  talk  that  way,  and  that  he 


276  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

would  show  him  as  much  as  he  could  reasonably  expect 
of  the  like  of  that." 

"  I  s'pose  I'm  'bout's  ignorant  o'  this  nunnery  business 
's  any  thing,  pooty  nigh;  haven't  got  the  hang  of  it, 
yet " 

"  Indeed  you  needn't  be  botherin'  yerself  about  these 
holy  houses  at  all,  for  it's  small  concern  ye'll  have  with 
them,  anny  way,  unless  ye've  a  sister  or  cousin,  or  the 
like  o'  that,  ye'd  want  to  devote  to  the  service  of  God ; 
but  we'll  put  ye  into  the  direct  way  of  learning  all  the 
whole  order  and  system  of  the  Catholic  religion,  all  out, 

meself  will  discourse  ye,  and  Father  Nicholas,  here, 

he  that  was  here,  a  moment  since,  anny  way,  for  it's  not 

here  now  that  he  is, we'll  all  take  ye  in  hand,  and 

we'll  make  short  and  sure  work  of  ye,  if  ye're  ready  for 
it,"  and  Father  Terence  proceeded  to  lay  down  %  pro 
gramme  for  the  impending  course  of  teaching. 

"  Me  good  sir,  ye'll  consider,  ye  know,  my  avycations, 
in  some  degree  ;  but  a  jue  proportion  of  nie  time  shall  be 
given,  doubtless,  to  the  important  work  ye're  proposing. 
Yerself '11  mostly  give  yer  whole  time  to  it,  iv  course." 

During  this  speech  the  Reverend  Father  took  down  his 
pipe  from  his  mouth,  filled  and — after  a  good  deal  of 
exercise  with  a  flint  and  steel,  between  which  too  great 
familiarity  had  bred  a  mutual  contempt — lighted  it. 

"  Guess  I  c'd  git  ye  some  '  the  real  stuff,  'n  th'  way  o' 

t'bacca,  't  less  'n  cost  and  no  commission, but,  sir, 

'bout  this  religion-business, — when  sh'll  I  call  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Bangs,  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone,  whether  he  aimed 
at  two  or  not. 

"Ye'll  just  come  every  day,  beginning  the  morrow — 
not  too  early,  ye  know,  be  rason  iv  the  church  juties. 
Yerself '11  desire  an  hour  or  two  for  early  devotion  and 


MR.  BANGS  HAS  AN  INTERVIEW.  277 

meditation,  and  will  practice  abstinence ;  takin'  yer  tea  or 
coffee,  and  bread  and  butter,  and  a  morsel  of  fish,  or  the 
like.  In  the  meanwhile  ye'll  put  yer  thoughts  upon  two 
things  chiefly :  the  first,  Will  ye  submit  to  the  Vicar  of 
Christ,  that's  His  Holiness  the  Pope, — and  second,  Will 
ye  believe  as  the  Church  believes  ?  that's  the  anncient 
Church  that's  never  changed  ?  Ye'll  find  it  a  great  help, 
no  doubt,  if  ye  consider  that  rason  and  history  and  the 
Word  of  God  are  all  upon  the  one  side,  entirely,  and 
upon  the  other  just  nothing  at  all  but  private  opinion  and 
nonsense." 

Having  thus  given  a  salutary  direction  to  the  thoughts 
of  the  religious  inquirer,  the  Very  Reverend  Father 
ceased. 

"  Wall ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Bangs,  «if  Casty-Divy " 

"  Ah  thin,  y'are  not  that  ignorant  o'  the  holy  Latin 
tongue  but  y'ave  got  a  bit  iv  it  at  the  tip  o'  yer  tooth  ! " 
said  the  Priest. 

"  Oh  !  Casty-Divy  ?  That's  Casty-Divy  Scienshy  Cook, 
't  used  t'  live — (does,  now,  fur's  I  know,) — -jest  'cross  lots 
f'm  our  house. — S'pose  't's  this  Nunnery,  much's  any 
thing,  made  me  think  'f  her.  Used  to  stick  'n  m'  crop, 
's  ye  may  say, — ye  know  birds  have  a  kind  'f  a  thing 
here,"  (pointing  to  the  place  and  going  on  like  a  lecturer,) 
"  's  I  said  b'fore,  dono  what  'tis  'n  Irish — that  is  Latin, — 
wall,  't's  what  ye  may  call  a  swallah — 'n  sometimes  the' 
undertake  to  git  someth'n  down,  't  wunt  go."  This  illus 
tration  from  comparative  anatomy,  he  was  giving  as  if  it 
were  quite  new  with  himself. 

Father  O'Toole  was  not  in  the  habit  of  interrupting, 
but  he  interrupted  here. 

"  Come,  man,"  said  he,  "ye  shall  stretch  yer  legs  a  bit 
and  we'll  go  into  the  chapel  convenient,  and  it'll  help  on 


278  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

the  conversion,  it's  likely,  and  be  a  good  thing  to  meself, 
at  the  same  time,  being  at  the  beginning  of  an  affair  like 
the  present.  Ye'll  follow  me,  just,  and  do  what  ye  see 
me  be  doing. 

Down  went  the  reverend  gentleman,  as  they  entered 
the  sacred  door,  crossing  himself,  touching  himself  with 
Holy  Water,  and  going  through  a  prayer,  apparently,  but 
with  a  half-glance  towards  his  companion,  now  and  then, 
who  went  through  some  performances  of  his  own,  which 
bore  but  a  very  far-off  likeness  to  those  of  his  prototype ; 
and  exclaiming,  before  long,  "  Look  ahere,  sir ;  I  don't 
expect  to  git  into  this  sort  o'  thing  right  away,  'ny  more 
'n  chawing  tobaccah.  I  s'pose  doctrine  first,  practice 
aft'rward,  's  the  best  way.  I'll  jest  as'  to  be  'xcused, 
now.  You  go  on,  same  as  ever,  for  all  me.  You  find 
sweet'nin,'  as  ye  may  say,  in  it,  no  doubt,  'f  ye  take 
anough  of  it  't  once.  When  ye  come  to  the  lookin'-round 
part  'f  it,  I'll  do  my  share.  Fact  'f  you  want  to  make  a 
to-do  front  'f  any  picture,  'r  idol,  'r  what-not, — would 
say,  not  idol,  b't  image, — 'n  the  way  'f  curtseyin'  or 
dancin',  wh'  I'll  stand  and  keep  watch  't  the  winders  so's 
t'  keep  folks  from  peeking-in  and  making  fun  'f  it." 

How  to  subdue,  in  a  quiet  and  dignified  way,  this  un 
imaginative  freedom  of  the  American,  without  crushing, 
in  the  shell,  the  promise  of  Yankee  conversion,  would 
have  puzzled  a  more  sophisticated  or  ready-witted  man 
than  the  Very  Reverend  Father  O'Toole.  It  had  the 
effect  with  him  of  "  bothering  him,"  as  he  would  have 
said,  or  did  say  afterward  ;  and,  kindly  as  he  was,  being 
fastened  to  Mr.  Bangs  by  the  tie  of  solicitude  for  his  soul, 
he  could  not  yet  avoid  banging  and  thumping  against  him 
every  now  and  then,  like  one  ship  against  another  lashed 
to  it,  when  the  wind  begins  to  freshen.  He  was  kept  in 


ME.  BANGS  HAS  AN  INTERVIEW.  279 

an  uncomfortable  state.  At  length, — having  satisfied  him 
self  with  the  experiment,  probably, — he  told  him  "  that 
if  he  (Mr.  Bangs)  thought  he  would  be  the  better  of 
staying  longer  in  that  holy  place,  more  particularly  in 
presence  of  the  Adorable  Redeemer,  whose  consecrated 
Body  was  there  kept,  and  in  the  neighborhood  of  certain 
glorious  relics  that  enriched  the  altar, " 

"  No  occasion  'thout  ye  wish  it,  *sir,  I'm  jest  's  well 
satisfied  's  if  I'd  ben  here  a  hunderd  years ;  but  then, 
I'll  hold  on  's  long  as  ye'r  o'  mind  to,  'f  that's  all." 

"  Will  ye  have  the  kindness  just  to  employ  yerself  in 
meditation  ?  or,  if  ye  please  to  go  out,  I'll  say  nothing 
against  it ;  I've  some  sacred  occupation,  here,  for  a  bit, 
and  I'll  join  ye  in  the  course  of  a  few  minutes,  it's 
likely." 

Mr.  Bangs  accepted  the  latter  alternative,  with  the 
assurance,  "  Wall,  sir ;  jest  's  you  say.  'T's  indifferent 
to  me  ; "  and  having  occasion  to  look  in,  soon  after,  he 
saw  the  priest  engaged  apparently  quite  in  earnest,  in 
devotion  before  the  altar. 

When  he  looked  in  again,  he  saw  two  figures  get  up, 
where  he  had  seen  but  one  go  down,  and  recognized,  in 
the  double,  Father  Nicholas. 

Mr.  O'Toole,  as  well  as  could  be  judged,  was  taken  by 
surprise  himself;  and  as  our  American  drew  in  again 
within  the  chapel,  he  heard  the  last  words  of  a  short  con 
versation  which  had  already  taken  place  between  the 
priests,  while  they  came  forward  toward  the  door.  Fa 
ther  Nicholas  was  saying,  "  Your  wisdom  and  experience 
may  make  something  out  of  him  in  that  way,  which  I 
have  no  hope  to  give  any  efficient  help  in,  if  it  were 
needed.  I  see,  perhaps,  another  way  in  which  he  may 
be  useful." 


280  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

With  his  eye  fixed  upon  the  strange  neophyte  that  was 
to  be,  he  finished  his  sentence,  so  that  Mr.  Bangs  might 
have  begun  to  think  that  he  himself  was  not  the  subject 
of  discourse. 

"  We  are  together  again,  it  seems,  Mr.  Bangs,"  he  con 
tinued  quietly,  in  the  same  tone  and  manner,  "  and  we 
meet  in  a  good  place,"  (crossing  himself,  and  saying  in  a 
low  voice,  as  to  another  inside  of  himself,  "  Tabernacula 
tua,  quam  dilecta.) — This  is  perhaps  your  first  visit  to  a 
place  like  this." 

"  Wall,  I  must  own  '  never  was  in  b't  one.  'Must  be 
a  first  time.  We  don't  have  all  these  fixin's  'n  Protes 
tant  meetin's ;  now  th'r'  ain't  a  relic  in  the  whole  lot  of 
'em,  f m  Massachusetts  down  to  Mexico,  'thout  'ts  a  min 
ister's  relic',  'r  ^someb'dy's.*  They  git  to  heaven  as  well 
's  they  can  without  'em ;  but  lor !  there  ain't  'ny  com 
parison.  This's  one  of  those  cathedrals,  likely,  't  I've 
heard  about." 

"  We  have  handsomer  places  than  this,  certainly,  not 
a  few,  and  a  good  deal  larger,"  said  Father  Nicholas, 
smiling. 

"  Oh !  Yes.  There's  Saint  Peter's  at  Rome  : — Le's 
see ;  how  w's  it  that  money  'as  raised  ? — I've  heard. — 
However,  that's  a  pooty  sizeable  kind  of  a  church,  cer- 
tin.  Ye  never  heard  o'  th'  'Old  South'  at  Boston,  did 
ye  ?  'T  Artillery  'lections,  (that's  the  Ancient  'n'  Honor 
able  Artillery) — they  hev*  a  celebration  'n'  a  sermon 
and  what  not — preachin'  to  'em  to  shoot  the  enemy  'th 
sof  balls,  I  s'pose, — wall,  any  way,  that  house'll  hold  con- 
sid'ble  many  when't's  chock-full's  I've  seen  it,  jest  like 
huckleberries  in  a  dumpling,  where  you  can't  see  the 
dough  't  holds  'em  together.  The  way  they  make  'em's 
*  Mr.  Bangs  seems  to  confound  two  words. 


MR.  BANGS  HAS  AN  INTERVIEW.  281 

this :  take  a  mess  o'  flour,  and  make  it  into  a  kind  'f  a 
batter,  or  whatever  you  may  call  it,  and  then  stir  in  your 
— wall,  that  ain't  exactly  what  I's  goin'  to  say.  That  Saint 
Peter's  must  be  great.  You  see  the  Protestants  ain't 
likely  t'  stand  'ny  sort  o'  comparison  'n  the  way  'f 
meet'n'-houses,  b'c'se  they  think  religion  ain't  s'  much  t' 
be  looked  at,  's  to  be  joined  in." 

"  It's  refreshing  to  hear  your  hearty  descriptions,  Mr. 
Bangs,  though  your  abundant  information,  upon  points 
with  which  your  friends  are  not  always  familiar,  leads 
you  a  little  wide,  sometimes.  Did  you  talk  with  the  very 
Reverend  Father  O'Toole  about  the  houses  of  God  ?  " 

"  Wall,  he  seemed  t'  fight  ruther  shy  of  'em,  I  thought. 
On'y  wish  those  fellahs  't  Peterport  c'd  see  all  I  saw  " — 

"  We  shall  arrange  to  send  any  messages  or  communi 
cations  that  you  may  desire,"  said  Father  Nicholas. 
"  Your  own  time  will  be  much  occupied  at  first.  I've  got 
a  pleasant  family  for  you  to  stay  in,  close  at  hand  here ; 
and  Father  Terence,  no  doubt,  will  arrange  hours,  and  so 
forth." 

Mr.  Bangs  had  got  into  a  business-like  arrangement, 
by  which  the  sun  of  independence  was  to  be  considerably 
shorn  of  his  beams.  He  took  it,  however,  very  genially, 
and  as  the  priest  left  him  to  await  Father  Terence's  re 
newed  attention,  he  spread  a  blue  handkerchief,  doubled, 
on  the  ground,  and  taking  a  newspaper  out  of  his  hat,  sat 
down  to  read. 


282  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

ANOTHER   RELIC    FOUND. 

HE  bed  stood  in  the  little  room  at  Skipper 
George's,  unchanged  except  in  having  been 
made  up  ;  and  so  all  other  things,  there,  were  as 
the  maiden  left  them;  nor  was  the  door  of  that  room 
shut. 

After  a  sickness  has  been  finished  in  a  death,  and  after 
the  burial  is  done,  those  who  are  left  miss  very  much  the 
round  of  duties  that  is  so  utterly  at  an  end.  They  start 
at  fancied  calls  ;  they  find  themselves  putting  their  hands 
to  things  no  longer  needed ;  they  lower  the  voice ;  they 
listen  sometimes,  and  then  recollect  that  there  is  no  one 
now  whose  light  sleep  may  be  broken,  or  whose  throbbing 
head  may  thrill  at  a  slight  sound;  there  is  none  now 
whose  breathing  may  give  token  of  rest  from  pain,  or 
whose  faint  words  can  scarcely  wing  a  flight  in  the  still 
air. 

And  then  the  thought  of  earlier  hours,  and  happier, 
comes  up,  when  the  departed  one  had  the  same  home  and 
the  same  household  things  with  them,  and  shared  their 
joys  and  sorrows.  Now  it  is  not  so.  One  form — whose 
head  has  lain  upon  our  bosom,  whose  hair  our  fin 
gers  played  with,  whose  eyelids  we  have  kissed,  whose 
lips  have  found  our  cheeks,  whose  arms  have  held  us, 


'ANOTHEE  RELIC  FOUND.  283 

whose  hands  have  done  so  many  pretty  things  or  played 
us  such  sweet  tricks  of  merryhood — whose  look,  whose 
laugh,  whose  sleep,  whose  waking,  had  each  such  beauty 
of  its  own — has  gone  like  morning  mist  melted  in  air, 
like  the  blue  cloud  of  smoke  scattered  forever ;  like  the 
word  spoken,  like  the  bubble  broken. 

Skipper  George  knew  nothing  of  the  speculations  and 
suspicions  of  his  friends  and  neighbors,  and  of  their  infor 
mation  gained.  They  knew  him  well  enough  never  to 
speak  of  these  to  him ;  and  it  was  specially  enjoined  and 
urged  on  all  occasions,  by  the  Minister  and  constable, 
that  nothing  should  be  said  to  him  about  them.  His  wife 
heard  more — hoped  and  feared  more,  no  doubt,  but  yet 
took  her  prevailing  feeling  from  the  strong,  steady  char 
acter  of  her  husband,  and  never  told  him  of  her  hopes 
and  fears. 

The  need  of  sorrowing  hearts  (as,  indeed,  men's  need 
at  all  times)  is  faith  in  God,  and.  work ;  this  they  both 
knew  and  acted  on  ;  yet  she  would  sometimes  sit  down 
quietly  to  weep,  and  he  would  sometimes  lean  against  the 
door-post  of  the  little  room,  and  lose  himself  in  sad  mem 
ories. 

During  this  time  of  planning  and  consultation  in  Peter- 
port,  and  searching  for  information,  another  memorial  of 
the  lost  girl  came  to  hand ;  such  evidence  as  it  contrib 
uted  was  from  an  unwished-for  quarter.  This  was  a  silk 
neck-kerchief,  taken  from  the  water  a  little  farther  down, 
toward  Castle-Bay  Point,  than  where  the  former  relic 
had  been  recovered. 

The  man  who  brought  it  said  that  he  had  seen  it  in 
passing  with  his  punt  along  that  shore,  as  it  clung  to  a 
rock,  and  was  tossed  up  and  down  with  the  wash.  The 
cloth  was  wet  with  brine,  and  torn  in  many  places  ;  but 


284  THE  NEW   PBIEST. 

some  old  fishermen,  who  saw  and  handled  it  after  it  had 
been  recognized  as  having  belonged  to  Lucy,  asserted 
without  hesitation  that  it  had  never  been  a  week  in  the 
water.  Its  fabric  was  sound  and  good,  though  it  was  a 
good  deal  smeared  with  sea-weed ;  and  the  rents  must 
have  been  made  before  it  had  ever  gone  into  the  deep. 

The  finder  showed  the  place  where  it  was  found ;  and 
it  seemed  strange  that  it  could  have  been  descried  in  such 
a  place,  unless  by  one  searching.  So  reasoned  the  plain 
fishermen,  and  they  looked  with  much  suspicion  at  the 
thing  (at  last)  because  the  man,  though  he  told  an  honest 
story  and  was  counted  an  honest  neighbor,  was  a  Roman 
Catholic,  as  it  happened  ;  and  though  they  did  not  doubt 
his  word,  they  "  considered,"  as  they  said,  that  "  he  might 
have  been  put  upon  it  unknowingly,"  to  keep  up  the  opin 
ion  that  the  Missing  was  drowned.  They  said,  "  her 
body  was  not  in  the  sea,  but  somewhere  else." 

The  neighbors  consulted  whether  they  could  keep  the 
knowledge  of  this  new  discovery  from  Skipper  George, 
and  determined  at  least  to  try  it.  They  gave  the  ker 
chief,  therefore,  in  trust  to  the  Minister.  The  news, 
however,  got  to  the  father,  as  news  always  will,  and  the 
next  day  he  presented  himself,  with  his  request : — 

"  Ef  'ee  thinks  best  to  give  me  what  'ee've  got,  sir,  I'd 
be  thankful  over  it." 

He  took  the  relic  in  his  hand,  wiped  off  the  tears  that 
fell  upon  it,  and  at  length,  handing  it  over,  said — 

"  Those  are  cruel,  grinding  teeth,  if  they  holes  were 
made  by  the  rocks." 

Nothing  could  be  more  expressive  than  what  he  said, 
and  his  way  of  saying  it,  and  saying  nothing  more.  The 
grinding  of  the  tender  body  of  the  innocent,  sweet  girl, 
upon  those  sharp  rocks ! 


ANOTHER  RELIC  FOUND.          285 

There  are  worse  teeth  in  the  water  than  those  of  the 
sharp  rocks : — Did  the  father  think  of  those,  as  another 
would  think  of  them,  from  his  words  ?  Were  his  thoughts 
for  his  lost  child  as  quick  as  other  men's  ? 

"  I  cannot  think  her  lost  yet,  Skipper  George,"  the 
Minister  answered,  saying  as  much  as  he  would  venture. 
The  father  still  held  the  kerchief  under  his  eyes,  as  he 
said : — 

"  There  was  a  coat  of  many  colors  that  had  been 
on  a  dear  child,  brought  home  to  his  father,  and  'e 
thought  an  evil  beast  had  devoured  un  ;  but  the  lad  was 

n'  dead, thank  God ! — I  don*  know  where  my  child 

is,  but  He've  got  her." 

He  looked  up  in  Mr.  Wellon's  face,  as  he  finished  this 
sentence,  and  it  was  like  the  clearing  off  of  the  dark  sky, 
that  broad,  peaceful  look  of  his. 

He  folded  the  cloth  tenderly,  and  bestowed  it  in  his  inner 
jacket-pocket  and  departed.  He  had  now  two  recovered 
memorials  of  his  Lucy,  since  her  loss. 

His  errand  was  up  the  harbor ;  and  as  he  passed  out 
of  the  drung  from  Mr.  Wellon's,  young  Urston,  who  was 
thin  and  pale,  but  had  thrown  himself  into  hard  work  at 
Messrs.  Worner,  Grose  &  Co.'s,  met  him,  and  having 
respectfully  saluted  him,  walked  silently  at  his  side,  an 
swering  questions  only.  At  length  the  young  man  broke 
the  silence  for  himself. 

"  I  think  we  can  trace  her,  now,"  lie  said,  hurriedly,  as 
if  he  thought  he  scarcely  had  a  right  to  speak  of  Lucy  to 
her  father.  Skipper  George  turned  upon  him  an  eye 
mild  as  a  woman's,  and  said, — 

"  James,  thou  doesn'  know,  yet,  what  an  old  father's 
heart  is.  See,  here's  an  old  hull  wi'  a  piece  knocked 
into  her  side  ;  and  I've  laid  her  over  upon  the  t'other  tack, 


286  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

and  after  a  bit  I'll  mubbe  get  all  mended  up,  and  tight 
again,  and  then  I'll  go  about,  an'  never  fear  ;  but  ef  'ee 
keeps  her  on  the  broken  side,  James,  afore  we've  patched 
her  and  stanched  her,  in  comes  the  sea,  James,  and  she'll 
go  down,  heavy  and  solid,  afore  'ee  can  make  land.  I 
mus'  n't  think  o'  they  oncertain  things — "  His  eyes  looked 
forth,  as  he  spoke,  open  and  broad,  like  another  sky ; — 
"  but  ef  'ee  've  any  thing,  go  to  the  Pareson,  lovie — our 
Pareson, — an'  'e'll  hear  it ;  "  and  so  James  Urston  spoke 
of  his  hope  no  more. 


MR.  BANGS  A  NEOPHYTE.  287 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


MR.  BANGS    A   NEOPHYTE. 


the  worthy  priest  of  Bay-Harbor,  having 
Mr.  Bangs  in  his  hands  to  be  converted,  felt,  or 
began  to  feel,  the  difficulties  of  that  relation.  To 
keep  up  dignity  and  authority,  to  convince  the  mind  and 
engage  the  heart  of  this  representative  of  the  great  Re 
public,  were  so  many  different  objects  in  one.  The  case 
was,  in  a  measure,  like  that  of  the  u  Angli  quasi  An- 
geli"  standing  for  sale  in  the  market  of  Rome,  whose 
beauty  led  Pope  Gregory  the  Great  to  undertake  the 
Christianizing  of  their  nation.  This  individual  American 
was  no  beauty,  certainly,  but  he  was  from  a  foreign  he 
retical  nation,  and  by  his  own  account,  scarce  any  of  his 
countrymen  knew  any  thing  of  the  true  faith.  Mr.  Bangs's 
account  was,  "  Th'  have  made  a  convert  'r  two.  S'pose 
ye've  seen  a  poor  f  'saken-lookin'  chickin,  pokin'  after  a  lot 
o'  pi  —  '  animals,  and  hangin'  on  to  'em,  fo'  company? 
Ye  want  somethin  a  little  mite  stronger."  Father  O'Toole 
was  convinced  that,  as  Father  Nicholas  also  had  said,) 
the  opportunity  was  a  golden  one,  and  must  not  be  let  go. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  ecclesiastical  combatant,  finding 
himself  in  possession  of  such  a  prisoner,  who  had  been 
taken  "  nee  gladio,  nee  arcu"  (suo^)  —  by  no  weapon  of 
his  own  —  and  was  as  multitudinous,  in  his  activity,  as  the 


288  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

company  of  men  whom  Father  O'Toole's  countryman 
once  took  by  surrounding  them,  felt  the  difficulty  of  main 
taining  the  authority  and  dignity,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
convincing  the  head  and  persuading  the  heart,  as  was  to 
be  done,  according  to  the  programme  of  his  operations. 

Under  the  circumstances,  he  addressed  himself  to  his 
labor,  in  the  bravest  manner  possible. 

Mr.  Bangs,  whose  habits  and  principles  led  him  to  use 
time  as  it  went,  was  anxious  not  to  be  unoccupied  after 
entering  upon  the  work  of  religious  conversion,  and  the 
quiet  old  man  was  therefore  likely  to  be  stirred  up  and  in 
stigated  in  a  way  very  unusual  to  him,  and  which  must 
worry  him  somewhat,  and  flurry  him  a  good  deal,  and 
give  him  many  solicitudes  most  unaccustomed.  The  pro 
posed  convert,  finding  the  priest's  way  of  proceeding  not 
so  methodical  and  business-like  as  it  might  be,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  being  assured  of  his  simple  and  kindly  nature, 
whose  only  relief  was  in  its  weaknesses,  took  upon  himself 
to  propose  that  he  should  take  a  regular  lesson,  at  certain 
times  each  day,  or  at  such  times  and  as  often  as  was  con 
venient  to  his  instructor,  of  whom,  meantime,  he  managed 
to  borrow  a  Douay  Bible. 

On  the  first  occasion  of  the  expected  convert's  appear 
ance  at  the  converter's  house,  the  next  morning  after 
making  the  arrangement,  the  latter  found,  at  the  very 
threshold,  a  reminder  of  the  solemn  work  begun,  and  of 
the  new  relations  existing. 

The  knocking  at  the  door  was  answered,  after  some  de 
lay,  by  a  slow-moving  man — probably  fisherman — acting 
as  porter,  who,  opening  the  door  but  quarter-way,  stopp  d 
with  his  body  the  gap  through  which  Mr.  Bangs  was 
about  passing  along  with  the  first  rays  of  light,  and  hav 
ing,  by  formal  question,  ascertained  from  the  visitor  that 


ME.   BANGS  A  NEOPHYTE.  289 

he  wished  to  see  the  very  Reverend  Father  O'Toole, 
first  showed  him  into  "  The  Library,"  with  some  awk 
wardness  and  much  gravity,  and  left  him  to  wait  until 
the  doorkeeper  had  found  out  whether  the  Father  was  at 
home,  and  whether  he  was  disengaged. 

"  Tell  him,"  said  Mr.  Bangs — the  manner  and  matter 
confusing  the  mind  of  the  occasional  domestic — "  not  to 
put  himself  out  one  mite  on  my  account.  'F  he  hasn't 
prepared  'mself,  I  suppose  't  '11  keep."  The  speaker, 
while  saying  this,  combed  up  his  hair  from  each  side  to 
the  top  of  his  head,  with  a  small  implement  taken  from 
his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  seated  himself  with  legs  crossed 
and  foot  swinging,  opposite  the  door. 

On  receiving  the  announcement  that  Father  O'Toole 
expected  him  in  the  opposite  room,  Mr.  Bangs  rather  led 
than  followed  the  man  to  the  Reverend  Father's  presence. 
The  occupant  of  the  room  was  alone,  sitting  with  a  book 
in  his  hand,  himself  dressed  with  the  utmost  care  that  he 
ever  bestowed  on  the  adornment  of  his  person.  Thus  he 
sat  gravely  awaiting,  and  very  grave  and  dignified  was 
his  salutation  to  his  visitor. 

" '  Haven't  come  b'fore  ye're  ready,  I  hope,  Father 
O'Toole  ?  "  said  the  candidate  for  conversion,  unabashed, 
or,  at  any  rate,  not  remaining  abashed  by  the  formality. 
Then,  seating  himself  opposite  to  the  Priest,  with  his  hat 
beside  his  chair,  he  gave  that  gentleman  the  inspiriting 
intimation  : — 

"Now,  sir,  I'm  ready  f'r  a  beginning,  and  you  can 
please  je'self  'bout  goin'  at  it."  So  he  cast  his  eyes  to 
the  ground,  and  sat  as  demure  as  possible,  though  not 
without  a  restlessness  of  the  body,  which  was  the  normal 
state  of  that  machine. 

The  ecclesiastic  fidgeted  in  his  dignity,  and  from  his 

VOL.   I.  19 


290  THE  NEW  PKIEST. 

not  beginning  at  once  with  the  "  lesson  "  agreed  upon,  it 
might  be  thought  that  his  plans  were  somewhat  discon 
certed. 

"  It's  a  solemn  and  difficult  work,  entirely,"  began  our 
priest,  when  he  did  begin  ;  "  a  very  solemn  and  very  diffi 
cult  work,  that  we're  entering  upon  the  extremity  of,  or 
the  borders  of."  At  this  point  he  stopped  and  recovered 
himself  hastily  with  the  question :  "  Did  ever  ye  meet 
with  a  book  called  '  The  way  to  become  a  Catholic  ?  ' ' 

"  'Tain't  the  same  as  '  Way  to  be  Happy,  by  one  o* 
Three  Fools/  I  guess,  is  it  ?  '  Never  read  it ;  but 't  used 
to  have  a  picture,  'n  th'  beginning  'f  a  woman  whippin' 
her  offspring.  I  alw's  said  'twa'n't  in  good  pr'portions ; 
woman's  arm  *s  too  long  for  her  figger.  Dono  's  ye  ever 
saw  it." 

This  little  ramble  of  his  disciple,  disconcerted  the 
teacher  again,  it  should  seem,  for  the  stream  of  instruction 
stopped,  and  he  began,  rather  nervously,  to  turn  the 
leaves  of  the  book  upon  his  lap.  Of  course  he  will  make 
a  new  assault.  This  he  does  as  follows — adapting  his 
method,  as  he  thought,  to  the  character  of  the  other's 
mind — "  Y'  are  aware  that  men  are  mortal ;  every  one 
knows  that."  . 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  American,  heartily ;  "  '  All  men  are 
mortal.  Enumeration.  And]  *s  the  copy-book  used  t* 
say  'n  I's  a  shaver." 

"  Sure,  then,  it's  easy  saying  that  some  sins  are  mortal, 
too.  Therefore — " 

"  Adam  fell  in — 

To  mortal  sin,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,  by  way  of  illustra 
tion.  "  'S  prepared  to  grant  that  proposition  b'fore  ye 
proved  it." 

"  Very  good,"  answered  the  reverend  reasoner,  warm- 


MK.   BANGS   A  NEOPHYTE.  291 

ing  with  success,  "  since  y'are  prepared  to  grant  what 
cannot  be  denied,  ye'll  be  prepared,  doubtless,  by  the 
same  rule,  to  deny  what  cannot  be  granted  ?  " 

If  the  triumphant  progress  of  his  argument,  in  its  for 
mer  steps,  was  due,  as  it  probably  was,  to  a  happy  acci 
dent,  this  last  must  have  been  one  of  the  deliberate  pieces 
of  his  plot,  as  he  had  thought  out  the  plan  of  it  before 
hand. 

"  Wall,  dono  's  'ave  any  constitootional  objection  ! 
"  Grant 't  all  men  are  mortal,  'course  I  deny  't  the  greatest 
man  'n  the  world,  whether  't's  Tie-berius  Caesar  Thomp 
son — that's  the  Hon'able  Tieberius,  member  o'  Congress 
'n  District  I  hail  from,  or  Zabd'el  B.  Williams,  Chair 
man  o'  S'lectmen  o'  Needham,  or  the  Pope,  or  what  not, 
ain't  mortal." 

The  solid  floating  bulk  of  Father  O'Toole's  argument 
was  not  broken  up  by  this  little  obstructive  illustration ; 
nor  was  it  turned  aside. 

"  The  Church  being  wan,"  he  continued,  "  sure,  y'ave 
a  right  to  believe  that  it's  never  been  corrupted." 

"Wall,  Yankees  are  noways  slow  't  assertin'  their 
rights,  ye  know.  Fact  is,  they're  ruther  inclined — wah1, 
they're  dreadful  t'nacious,  's  ye  may  say." 

"Well,  then,  don't  ye  see,  if  the  Church  has  never 
been  corrupted,  then  the  Pope's  the  Vicar  of  Christ  ?  I 
think  ye'll  easy  see  that,"  urged  the  Priest,  drawing  his 
argument  close.  Not  being  familiar  with  the  tone  and 
dialect  of  Americans  of  Mr.  Bangs's  class,  he  very  likely 
did  not  readily  or  entirely  understand  him  ;  but  the  latter 
seemed  to  accept  the  arguments  urged  upon  him  cordially. 
This  was  Mr.  Bangs's  answer : — 

"  Wall,  fact,  it  is  'bout 's  easy  reasonin'  's  ever  I  heard. 
'R'member  a  fullah  named  Tim ." 


292  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  That's  a  very  good  Irish  name,  then,"  said  the  Priest, 
who  was  in  excellent  spirits. 

"  Timbuctoo  Meldrum,  's  name  was.  Wall,  's  I  w's 
saying,  we  used  to  argue  't  a  debatin'  s'ciety  we  had,  out 
't  Needham,  and  he  proved  ye  couldn't  'xpect  'nlightn- 
ment  V  civilization  from  colored  folks,  p'ty  much  like 
this :  '  Don't  all  hist'ry  show  that  heathens  and  savigis 
wuship  idols  V  images,  and  b'lieve  Jn  charms  'n'  am'lets, 
'n'  beads,  'n'  all  kinds  o'  blessed  things  ?  Then  I  say  it's 
as  clear  's  the  sun  'n  the  canopy,  't  ye  can't  educate  a 
nigger.' " 

"  Does  the  sun  be  in  a  canopy,  then,  in  Amerikya  ?  " 
inquired  the  Priest,  with  a  zeal  for  science  that  would  be 
found,  no  doubt,  to  exist  generally  in  the  human  race,  if 
a  trial  were  but  fairly  made,  "  and  what  sort 's  it,  then, 
clouds  ?  or  fire  ?  or  what  ?  " 

"  Wall,  sir,  'taint  made  o'  silk  or  satin.  So  ye  think 
the  Church, — that's  the  Holy  Roman  Catholic  Church, 
'course, — hasn't  ben  c'rupted,  do  ye  ?  " 

"  Sure,  I  think  we  may  say  we've  proved  that  once,  well 
enough,  anny  way,"  said  the  Priest,  whose  easy  progress 
had  given  him  great  confidence,  even  with  a  strange  sub 
ject,  like  Mr.  Bangs. 

"  Wall,  ye've  proved  it  one  way,  fact.  'S'pose  we've 
got  to  grant  't's  ben  altered  a  mite  or  two,  'n  the  way  'f 
improvin'  'n'  growin'  better,  haven't  we  ?  'Strikes  me  we 
don't  hear  so  much  's  we  might,  'n  Scriptur,  'bout  the 
Holy  Father,  the  Pope ;  and  Scriptur's  ruther  mum  on 
subject  T  Indulgences  and  Purgatory.  Dono's  't  any- 
wher's  recommends  usin'  graven  images  and  pictures  to 
help  devotion  ;  and  then  it's  kind  o'  backward — seems  to 
hang  fire — 'bout  wushippin'  Virgin  Mary ." 

Here  the  worthy  priest  began  to  prick  up  his  ears  a 


MR.  BANGS  A  NEOPHYTE.  293 

little,  as  if  he  had  mistaken  his  man ;  but  he  had  not 
time  fairly  to  get  rid  of  his  happy  state  of  satisfaction  in 
himself  and  his  convert,  before  he  was  reassured  by  the 
latter  going  on,  in  his  own  way,  to  a  more  satisfactory 
ending  than  his  sentence  had  promised.  The  ending  was 
thus  : — 

"  'S  you  say,  these  things  are  all  real  patterns  o'  truth ; 
all  is,  I  leave  't  to  any  body  to  say  whether  't  don't  seem 
Js  if  they  didn't  know  's  much,  when  Scriptur  's  written, 
's  they  do  now." 

"  Ye'll  allow,"  said  the  Priest,  trying  a  little  more  ar 
gument,  just  to  finish  the  thing  up,  "  God  has  more  ways 
than  wan,  mostly  ?  Well,  then,  in  this  present  case,  th' 
other's  traddition,  and  it's  as  good  as  Scripture  itself;  do 
ye  see  that  ?  " 

"  'N'  then,  's  that  great  text,  here,  f '  Purgytory,  'n  the 
References, — Matthoo  Fifth,  Twenty-sixth, — why,  't's  as 
pat 's  butter.  I  guess,  to  this  day,  ye  don't  take  'em  out, 
t'll  somtfdy's  paid  the  utmost  farthin\  Come  t'  hitch  tra 
dition  on,  too,  V  ye  can  prove  'most  any  thing,  's  clear  's 
starch,  's  the  woman  said." 

"  Ah !  then,  I  was  fearful  of  ye,  a  while  ago,  that  ye 
might  have  got  some  o'  the  Protestant  notions  into  ye, 
that  they  talk  about  corruptions  ;  but  here's  something, 
then,  I'd  like  ye  to  consider, ,  just  by  way  of  exam 
ple  :  Supposing  ye  were  disposed  to  hold  an  argument, 
which  y'are  not,  ye'd  say  the  Church  was  pure  at  the 
beginning,  and  corrupt  after ;  now  if  it  was  pure  at  the 
first,  and  corrupt  after,  what  way  was  it  those  corruptions 
came  in,  just  ?  Can  anny  Protestant  answer  that  question 
at  all  ?  " 

The  position  in  which  the  reverend  arguer  seemed  to 
feel  himself,  was  that  of  having  his  hold  fast  upon  his 


294  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

convert,  and  being  able  to  deal  thoroughly  and  leisurely 
with  him.  Mr.  Bangs  answered — 

"  Way  I  heard  that  question,  put  b'  your  friend,  Fa 
ther  Nicholas,  there,  t'other  day,  's  this :  ('t  had  a  tail  a 
little  mite  different — )  '  If  religion  was  pure  at  first,  V 
Vcome  corrupted,  'must  have  ben  a  time  when  corruptions 
come.  Now  can  any  body  put  his  finger  on  the  time  when 
they  come  ? '  'Struck  me  's  bein'  a  p'ty  'cute  question  'n 
I  heard  it," 

"  Ay,  that's  the  very  thing,  in  other  words  ;  it  was  th* 
other  way,  then,  meself  was  giving  it  to  ye,  just  to  put  a 
bit  more  force  in  it,"  answered  the  Priest. 

"  'T  may  be  'nother  view  o'  the  same  thing,"  said  his 
pupil.  "  'Bout  's  much  like  's  two  sides  'f  a  flounder, 
there  'n  Charles  River  Bridge,  fact." 

Whether  Mr.  Bangs  was  or  was  not  aware,  that  the 
two  sides  of  a  flounder,  which  ought  to  correspond,  are 
strangely  different, — one  being  white  and  the  other  black, 
one  having  two  eyes  and  the  other  none, — Father  Ter 
ence  accepted  the  illustration  triumphantly. 

"  Ay,  or  anny  where  else  ! "  said  he.  "  Can  anny 
man  living  tell  what  time  these  corruptions  came  in  they 
talk  so  much  about?  Not  wan  or  all  o'  them  can  do 
it?" 

"  Case  'n  point,"  said  JMr.  Bangs :  "  Casty  Divy  Sci- 
enshy,  ye  know,  't  I  told  ye  'bout,  Father  O'Toole,  's 
blind  o'  one  eye,  (she's  pleggy  well  off,  though,  and  had  's 
many  sparks  's  a  cat  in  cold  weather, — 'fact,  they  joked 
me  'bout  her  once.)  Wall,  's  I's  sayin',  one  eye  's  blind 
's  a  beetle ;  'twa'n't  al'a's  so,  't's  grown  so — ('t  must  be 
one  o'  these  beetles  th'  have  f '  knockin'  in  wedges,  f 'r 
insects  ain't  blind, — natch'l  hist'ry  'd  tell  'em  that ;)  wall, 
I  guess  Casty  Divy  'd  find  it  pleggy  hard  to  tell  when 


MR.  BANGS  A  NEOPHYTE.  295 

that  blindness  come  ;  that  is,  time  o'  day,  day  o'  th'  week, 
day  o'  th'  month,  V  so  on." 

"  There  it  is,  now,"  said  the  Priest ;  "  she  can't  tell 
what  time  it  came ;  and  can  anny  wan  o'  them  tell  what 
time  these  corruptions  came,  I'd  like  to  know." 

"  'F  I's  goin'  to  answer  that  'n  the  affirmative,  I  sh'd 
say  the's  few  men  c'd  keep  up  'th  ye  'n  an  argument.  I 
s'pose  the  way  changes  come  'bout,  's  p'ty  much  1'k'  this : 
say  ye've  got  a  junk  o'  pure  ice,  in  water  'taint  altogether 
clean ;  wall,  bymby  ye  come  to  give  a  look  at  it,  and 
half  'f  it,  or  two  thirds  'f  it  say,  's  gone  into  water;  't's 
made  cleaner  water,  but  'taint  ice  any  more.  'T'd  puzzle 
the  old  fox  himself,  I  guess,  to  tell  when  that  b'gan  to 
come  'bout  Or,  take  'n'  slew  the  figger  right  round — 
here's  water,  say,  and  ye  'xpose  it  to  temperature  o' 
frezin', — that's  32  Fahrenheit, — 'f  it's  a  little  mite  warm, 
't'll  be  all  the  better  f '  the  'xperiment, — shavin'- water  '11 
do ; — wall,  go  'n'  take  a  look  't  that,  after  a  spell,  'n'  ye'll 
find  'twunt  look  's  if  the  cold  'd  done  any  thin'  to  it ;  but 
jest  stick  yer  finger,  or,  'f  ye  don't  want  to  put  your  fin 
ger,  put  a  stick  in,  and  I  guess  ye'll  find  it  all  cuslush ; 
'f  'taint,  I've  misst  a  figger,  that's  all." 

How  this  illustration  supported  the  "  argument "  of  the 
worthy  converter,  it  was  not  easy  for  Father  O'Toole  to 
see,  and  he  answered  as  follows — rather  kindly  passing 
by  it,  as  the  work  of  an  obtuse  but  well-intentioned  mind, 
than  rebuking  it  as  the  suggestion  of  a  hostile  one : — 

"  It's  a  very  disagree'ble  and  tadious  process,  then,  that 
melting  and  freezing ;  and  it's  not  often  I  tried  it.  I  pre 
fer  having  my  shaving-watter  warm,  towards  having  it 
cold,  the  way  ye  speak  of.  I'll  be  going  on,  now,  to  give 
ye  instruction  in  a  few  points  o'  the  Catholic  Faith.  The 
Pope's  th'  entire  head  o'  Christendom — that's  taken  for 


296  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

granted  ;  I  think  ye  were  satisfied  with  the  proof  I  gave 
ye  on  that  p*int." 

"  Oh,  yes,  Father  O'Toole,  'don't  need  'ny  more  proof. 
T's  only  'stonishin'  t'  my  mind,  t'  find  a  man  IV  Father 
Debree,  there,  akickin'  over  th'  traces,  'th  all  that  proof." 

"  An'  what  traces  is  he  kicking  over,  then  ?  "  inquired 
the  Priest.  "I  didn't  hear  of  his  kicking  over  anny 
thing."  The  lesson  was  suspended,  and  the  book  was 
(inadvertently)  shut. 

"  Wall,  he's  a  pleggy  smart  fullah,  b'  all  accounts. 
'Didn't  know  b't  what  he'd  got  a  little  mite  agee  'pon 
some  points.  'Glad  to  hear  he's  all  right.  'S'pose  'twas 
only  't  he  got  ruther  put  out  'th  the  Prot'stants  f '  makin' 
such  a  fuss,  'n'  'cusing  the  Cath'lics  o'  carryin'  off  Miss 
Barberry,  there.  They  say  't's  t'other  way." 

"  And  who's  carried  her  off,  then  ? "  asked  Father 
O'Toole,  with  some  warmth. 

"  /  sh'd  like  to  see  'em  prove  't  she  is  carried  off," 
said  Mr.  Bangs.  "  'Guess  'f  'twas  Father  Nicholas  man 
aged  it,  't'll  take  more  gumpshion  'n  they've  got,  to  find  't 
out." 

"And  what's  about  Father  Nicholas?"  asked  the 
worthy  old  Priest. 

"  Wall,  'f  'twan't  f 'r  his  bein'  under  you,  'guess  folks  'd 
say  he'd  had  his  finger  in  it ;  but  how  'd  he  go  'n'  do 
any  thing  'thout  your  tellin'  him  ?  'n'  nobody  'd  think  o' 
suspectin'  you,  Father  O'Toole.  B't 's  you's  sayin,  'bout 
those  sacrymunts ." 

The  good  Priest  was  discomposed,  and  had  lost  his 
place  in  the  book.  The  American's  assurance  of  the 
general  confidence  in  his  supremacy  over  his  assistant, 
may  have  helped  to  restore  his  equanimity.  Presently, 
in  his  good-natured  way,  he  began  again : — 


MR.  BANGS  A  NEOPHYTE.  297 

"  Well,  then,  there  are  seven  Sacraments.  YeVe  been 
taught  two,  I  suppose/' 

"  'Don't  undertake  to  determine  that  point,  how  many 
we  had.  Seven  's  a  good  number  for  you  to  have,  and  I 
guess  ye  can  prove  it  's  well 's  any  thing  else.  Sh'd  like 
to  have  the  proof." 

"  Those  Protestants  want  the  proof  from  Holy  Scrip 
ture,  mostly.  We'll  go  to  the  Holy  Scripture,  now.  First, 
How  many  days  was  it  the  Almighty  God  created  the 
heavens  and  the  earth  ?  " 

"  Seven.  That  does  come  pleggy  near,  fact,"  said  Mr. 
Bangs. 

"  Ah !  and  isn't  it  exactly,  then,  it  is  ?  What's  the  dif 
ference  betwixt  seven  and  seven  ?  Well,  then,  you  see 
it  in  the  days  o'  the  week  itself.  Seven  's  a  sacred  num 
ber.  Seven  Orders  there  are,  and  seven  Sacraments,  the 
same  way ;  is  that  clear  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  that's  's  clear  's  glass  in  'n  'clipse  o'  the  sun, 
's  the  man  said." 

"  Then,  Order,  Baptism,  Confirmation,  Eucharist,  Pen 
ance,  Extreme  Unction,  Matrimony  's  seven.  Baptism 
gives  righteousness,  and  faith  and  the  like  ;  and  Con 
firmation  strengthens  all,  again  ;  and  then  the  Holy  Eu 
charist  " 

"  That's  what  ye  have  for  the  Lord's  Supper,  I  s'pose. 
Mass,  I  guess  ye  call  it,"  said  Mr.  Bangs. 

"  Indeed,  y'are  very  right.  It's  the  Unbloody  Sacrifice, 
also.  Ye've  heard  some  o'  those  things  the  Protestants 
speak  against  the  truth,  about  transubstantiation ;  but 
when  ye  think,  once,  isn't  God  almighty  ?  I  think  the 
like  of  you, — a  man  that's  in  the  right  way, — wouldn't 
find  any  difficulty  at  all,  in  that.  He  says,  '  This  is  my 
Body, — hoc  est  corpus  meum,'  literally ;  and  it  must  be, 
literally,  his  body." 


298  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

"  I  want  to  know  the  whole  o'  that,"  said  the  American. 
"  I  heard  two  fullahs  arguing  t'other  day,  Catholic  and 
Protestant.  Catholic  said  p'ty  much  's  you've  said,  just 
now,  Latin  ('f  'tis  Latin)  'n'  all ;  'n'  then  the  other  man 
said,  '  Look  ahere  ;  when  the  Lord  fus'  said  that,  He  had 
His  body  on  Him  ;  now  the  bread,  't  He  said  't  of,  wa'n't 
a  piece  o'  that  body ;  'n'  if  't  wa'n't,  then  't  wa'n't  His 
literal  body, — ('f  that's  what  ye  call  it.) — That's  what 
the  man  said." 

"And  do  you  think,  was  he  the  first  man  ever  said 
that  ?  no,  nor  won't  be  the  last  ayther,  so  long  as  the 
Devil  's  in  the  world.  That's  what  I'm  saying  ;  ye  can 
answer  that  this  way :  '  God's  word  is  true,  and  Himself 's 
almighty,  and  so,  where's  the  trouble  of  Him  making  it 
what  He  says  ?  '  Doesn't  He  make  all  things  ?  and  how 
does  He  make  -them  ?  Isn't  it  by  His  word  ?  "  This 
was  said  with  real  solemnity  and  dignity. 

"  That's  what  I  want,"  said  Mr.  Bangs.  "  I  want  a 
real  good  answer,  'n  case  I  meet  him  again.  He'll  say 
Ys  'genst  the  senses  " 

"And  are  the  senses  to  be  trusted  in  a  miracle,  I'd 
like  to  know  ?  "  inquired  the  Priest,  with  great  animation 
and  spirit. 

"  Wh'  /  take  it,  the  senses  V  the  only  things  't  is  a 
mirycle  to, — that  is,  't's  what  the  man  'd  say,"  said  Mr. 
Bangs  ;  "  he'd  say  't's  meant  for  the  senses,  1'k'  the  wine 
at  the  marriage,  there  " 

"  I'm  thinking  its  more  than  once  you're  speaking  with 
that  man  ;  but  isn't  it  the  greater  faith  to  believe  against 
every  sense  and  all  senses  ?  "  asked  the  Priest,  putting  a 
deep  question. 

"Wall,  that's  a  home-thrust,  Js  ye  may  say.  Don* 
b'lieve  the  fullah  'd  answer  that,  'f  he  sh'd  try  t'll  's  head 
come  off." 


MR.   BANGS   A  NEOPHYTE.  299 

"And  'twas  with  the  Scripture,  I  did  it,  too,  that 
they're  always  crying  out  for,"  said  the  Priest,  compla 
cently. 

"  Wall,  the's  a  good  many  fellahs  take  V  go  by  Scrip 
ture,  one  way  'r  'nother.  ThV  ain't  one  of  'em  't  takes 
th'  ben'fit  o'  th'  'nsolvent  Act,  't  don't  git  a  good  house  'n' 
property  f  life  ; — 'cordin*  to  Scripcher  'bout  'failin'  V 
gittirf  int'  everlastin'  habitations,'  s'pose  they'd  say. 
The's  a  man  wanted  t'  git  a  lot  o'  money  t'  put  up  s'm' 
buildins, — great  pr'fessor,  too, — took  'n'  borrowed  all 
'round,  'n'  then  he  failed,  f 'r  ever-so-many  thousand  dol 
lars,  (guess  'twas  two  hunderd  thousand,)  'n',  come  t'  look 
into  it,  he  hadn't  got  'ny  money  to  pay,  'n'  one  mortgage 
piled  atop  'f  'nother,  'n'  no  doin'  any  thing, — 'said  the 
buildins  were  'n  ornament  t'  th'  town ;  and  he'd  gone  on 
'n  faith,  'n'  he  didn't  know  'ny  better,  'n'  what-not, — knoo 
'nough  not  to  lose  any  thing  himself,  though ; — wall,  a 
friend  'f  his,  when  the'  come  to  see  nobody  'd  git  any 
thing,  says  to  him,  '  Look-a-here !  'Thought  you's  a 
pr'fessor  ;  don't  the  Bible  say,  Owe  no  man  any  thing  f ' 
So  says  he,  '  I  don't  owe  any  man ;  'took  'n'  borrowed  't 
all  o'  widows  'n'  orphans.' — He  wanted  it  set  down  on 
his  head-stone,  't  he  w's  'providential  instr'ment  f '  puttin' 
up  those  buildins." 

"  See  the  badness  o'  private  judgment,  now,  tow'rds 
having  the  judgment  o'  the  Church  ! "  said  Father 
O'Toole. 

"  Wall,  that  kind  o'  private  judgment  ain't  wuth  much, 
I  guess.  Common  sense  ain't  private  judgment ;  'fact,  't's 
the  common  judgment  o'  the  Whole.  'Guess  private 
judgment  's  'bout  's  good  's  any,  'f  't  sticks  to  common 
sense.  Church  wouldn't  be  much,  'thout  that,  I  guess. — 
's  I  was  sayin', — 'bout  that  text,  there,  '  My  Body ; '  'taint 


300  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

the  look,  no'  the  smell,  no'  the  taste,  no'  the  feel,  no'  the 
heft ;  but  't's  IT. 

"'S  a  woman  'n  our  town, — ('taint  the  man,  this  time,) 
— name  's  Peggy  Mansur, — 't  any  rate  't's  what  th'  uset 
to  call  her, — good-natured,  poor,  shiftless  soul, — never  did 
'ny  harm  ;  uset  t'  take  'n  everlastin'  sight  o'  snuff, — 
Mac — guess  'twas  Scotch  snuff,  come  to  think ; — wall, 
she  b'lieved  p'ty  much  's  this  Bible  says,  here,"  (taking 
his  Douay  out  of  his  hat,)  "  'bout  Peter,  'n  Matthew,  six 
teenth,  eighteenth,  'n  a  note  Jt  the  bottom,  't  says  'same  's 
if  He'd  said,  'n  English, '  Thou  art  a  rock  ; '  on'y  she  went 
on  'n'  b'lieved  't  Peter  was  a  rock,  cause  the  Lord  said 
so,  'n'  He's  almighty.  A  fullah  said  to  her,  '  Look  a-here ; 
do  you  mean  to  say  that  they  could  'a'  set  to  work  on  him 
'n'  hammered  'n'  hacked  'n'  what  not,  and  made  part  'f  a 
meetin'-house  out  of  him  ? '  l  Why,  no,  I  guess  I  don't,' 
s's  she.  '  I  don't  mean  't  he  looked  so,  V  acted  so ;  but 
I  mean  't  he  wus  so.'  '  Wall,'  s's  the  man  " 

"  I  thought  I  hard  ye  saying  it  wasn't  the  man  it  was, 
this  time,"  interposed  the  Priest,  as  the  familiar  sound 
occurred  in  Mr.  Bangs's  story. 

The  interrupted  story-teller  smiled  and  knit  his  brows 
slightly  closer,  and  looking  still  to  the  left  of  the  object  to 
whom  he  addressed  himself,  explained  : — 

"  Oh  !  This  's  away  out  'n  Mass'chusetts,  'n  the  States, 
this  was.  Wall,  they  spoke  up,  'n'  says  to  her,  s'd  they, 
'  Why,  look  a-here,  aunty,  Wus't  his  skin,  't  was  rock  ? ' 
so  s's  she,  '  I  guess  not.'  '  Wall,  wus't  his  flesh  ? '  '  Guess 
not,'  s's  she.  'Wus't  his  blood?'  '  Ruther  guess  not,' 
s's  she.  '  Wus't  his  cords  ? '  <  Guess  not.'  <  Wall,  wus't 
his  stomuch  ? '  '  Guess  not.'  '  Wus't  his  brains  ?  '  '  Guess 
not.'  Finally,  she  guessed  't  wa'n't  's  eyes,  nor 's  ears,  nor 
's  nose,  'n  I  dono  what  all ;  and  finally  they  come  to  ask 


MR.   BANGS  A  NEOPHYTE.  3Q1 

'f  'twas  his  bones,  'n'  she  didn't  know  but  't  might  be  's 
bones.  But  s's  they,  '  Aunty,  bones  ain't  a  man,  and  't 
looks  1'k'  pleggy  small  p'taters,  to  come  down  t'  that.  You 
said  the  hull  man's  rock,  when  ye  b'gan  'th  him.  (  Wall,'  s's 
she,  '  I  say  so,  now.'  '  Then  you  don't  say  't 's  his  bones 
more  'n  the  rest-part .  'f  him  ?  '  '  No,  I  don't,'  s's  she. 
'  Wall,'  s's  they,  '  Look  a-here,  if  twa'n't  'ny  part  .'f  him, 
't  wus  rock,  'n'  you  say  th'  man  's  rock,  what  wus  the'  o' 
rock  'bout  th'  man  ? '  *  Why,  't's  THE  MAN  HIMSELF,' 
s's  she." 

"  Wall,  I  tell  ye,  Father  O'Toole,  the'  wa'n't  one  o'  the 
whole  boodle  'f  'em  c'd  answer  that ;  'n  she  shovelled  th' 
snuff  'nto  her  nose,  1'k'  a  dam  breakin'  away,  'n  kep'  a 
laughin',  t'll  she  got  tired.' 

Mr.  Bangs's  illustrations  were  all  of  the  most  left- 
handed  sort,  that  did  not  at  all  explain  or  enforce  the 
things  they  were  brought  to  illustrate  ;  but  rather  the 
contrary.  The  Priest  saw  this,  and  answered,  with  a 
view  to  it. 

"  Y'are  not  accustomed,  it's  likely,  to  discussions  of  the 
sort, — I  mane  if  your  mind  is  just  drawing  the  way  ye 
said  it  was.  I'm  thinking  it  wanders,  a  little,  just  now ; 
maybe  it's  better  we  leave  off  now,  for  it's  my  opinion 
ye've  got  just  about  as  much  as  ye  can  cleverly  bear. 
One  thing  I'd  like  to  know  :  Are  ye  desiring  to  be  con 
verted,  as  I  understood  ye  were  ?  " 

"  My  wishes  haven't  changed  one  mite,  sir,"  said  the 
American. 

"  I  think  ye'll  do,  for  a  bit,  with  the  teaching  ye've  had. 
It's  important  to  make  an  impression  upon  ye  with  the 
solemnities  of  religion,  for  it's  a  great  hold  they  take  upon 
a  man,  and,  though  I  speak  it  with  reverence,  it's  my  sol 
emn  opinion  there's  few  places  where  ye'd  be  like  to  get 


302  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

a  stronger  impression  upon  ye  than  just  in  my  own 
church,  though  there's  larger  in  the  country,  doubtless, 
and  finer,  in  some  unimportant  particulars ;  but  I'll  take 
ye  to  high  mass,  on  Sunday  next, — (the  day's  Wednes 
day,) — and  I  think  ye'll  be  struck  with  surprise  and  de 
votion,  all  at  wance,  if  ye  give  yer  mind  to  it." 

"  Jesso,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,  bowing  his  head  at  the  same 
time.  "  'Want  to  see  the  real  thing.  Have  heard  '<  aint 
alw's  what 't  should  be  ; — that  is,  'n  the  fixins,  I  mean  ; — 
holy  candles  and  what  not.  'Tell  me  the'  don't  have  real 
candles,  but  things  t'  look  like  'em.  'Taint  so  'th  you, 
'course.  Wh'  I  know  a  lot  T 's  good  candles  's  any  'n  the 
universe,  f '  next  to  nothing."  So  Mr.  Bangs  departed. 


MRS.  BARRE' S   SAD  WALK.  303 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

MRS.  BARRE'S  SAD  WALK. 

HE  cool  wind  and  the  sea-smell  came  together 
up  the  road,  and  the  waves  darkened  the  water ; 
it  was  just  the  day  for  walking,  and  Mrs.  Barre 
was  out.— rPeterport  harbor-road  is  pretty  and  pictu 
resque,  as  are  all  these  out-harbor  roads,  (wanting  only 
trees  ;)  and  the  turns,  and  ups  and  downs,  made  very  con 
venient  stages  for  the  little  girl's  excursions  in  front  of  her 
mother.  Up  hill  and  down  hill,  this  way  and  that,  along 
by  Marchants'  Cove  and  Frank's  Cove,  and  along  by  the 
colony  of  Sinderses,  and  through  the  fence  across  the 
meadows,  up  the  hill  and  through  the  gorge  to  Mad  Cove, 
the  mother  and  her  little  one  went  on,  pausing  at  the  top 
of  the  steep  descent  down  to  this  last,  which  is  at  the  end 
of  the  tongue  of  land  on  which  stands  Peterport,  with  all 
its  several  coves. 

This  place,  with  its  wall  of  rock  to  the  north  and  west, 
and  slope  of  grass-covered  ledge  to  the  east,  like  a  valley 
in  a  mountain  district,  has  its  goats  climbing  and  capering 
on  the  cliffs,  like  such  valleys  in  the  old  world. 

As  Mrs.  Barre  thus  paused  for  a  moment,  before  going 
down,  while  the  little  girl  sate  down  on  the  rock  beside  her, 
we  may  fancy  what  she  felt.  Whatever  Father  Debree 
may  have  been  to  her,  or  she  to  him, — whatever  memories 


304  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

they  had  in  common,  whether  of  sweet  childhood  in  one 
dear  home,  or  of  later  neighborhood  and  knowledge  of 
each  other,  and  whether  there  were,  or  not,  such  relation 
ship  between  them  as  made  it  sure  that  their  two  lives, 
hereafter,  must  affect  each  other, — here,  in  this  little  cove, 
among  strange  people,  (or  people  nearly  strange,)  had 
passed  two  scenes  so  full  of  feeling  to  her  and  to  him,  and 
so  full  of  pain,  as  seldom  come  in  the  life  of  any.  It  was 
but  a  few  days  since,  and  now  she  stood  looking  down  upon 
the  spot  in  which,  so  lately,  she  had  stood  with  a  straining 
heart  and  stretching  brain. 

There  was  a  door  at  the  back  of  the  Widow  Freney's 
house,  and,  while  they  sat  at  the  road-side,  it  opened,  and 
a  little  girl  appeared,  as  if  coming  out.  As  soon  as  she  saw 
the  well-known  visitors,  she  ran  back,  as  children  do,  but 
shutting  the  door  behind  her,  with  a  sense  of  carefulness  or 
propriety  a  little  unusual  among  the  people.  Little  Mary 
watched,  for  some  time,  to  see  it  open  again,  and  then  said 
she  thought  there  was  no  one  in  the  house,  except  the 
child  ;  and  her  mamma,  acting  upon  the  same  supposition, 
passed  by  the  place  and  went  to  the  settlement  below. 

There  was  old  Joe  Royce's  wife,  a  good,  simple  Chris 
tian  body,  who  was  very  poor,  because  she  had  no  chil 
dren,  and  her  "  skipper  "  was  stiff  in  the  joints,  and  in 
capable  of  much  exertion,  or  exertion  to  much  purpose. 
"  Joe  did  go  out  some  very  scattered  times,  and  fish  for  a 
spurt,  but  he  wasn'  any  great  shakes,  and  what  could  us 
expect  of  he  ? "  was  the  professional  estimate  of  poor 
Royce's  capability,  though  the  neighbors  did  their  best, 
good-naturedly,  in  helping  the  poor  fellow  to  get  himself 
out,  and  to  do  for  himself  when  he  was  out,  and  did  their 
best  in  making  allowances  for  him.  The  family  were 
pensioners,  therefore ;  but  this  day,  the  old  couple  were 


MRS.  BARRE' S  SAD  WALK.  3Q5 

graver  than  their  wont;  there  was  an  evident  restraint 
upon  them. 

At  the  next  house,  too,  it  was  the  same.  As  she  passed 
by  the  flake,  on  which  were  many  of  the  wives  at  work, 
one  old  woman — a  hard-and-broad-featured,  small-eyed 
woman,  in  a  black  dress,  very  square  on  the  shoulders 
and  short-waisted — answered  her  salutation  shortly,  with 
out  leaving  or  looking  up  from  her  occupation.  The 
woman,  evidently,  was  not  in  a  kindly  humor.  A  cloud 
seemed  to  have  darkened  the  whole  neighborhood. 

As  Mrs.  Barre  looked  among  the  other  workers,  at 
least  one  pleasant  face  put  itself  forward,  belonging  to 
Jesse  Barbury's  wife.  She  came  to  the  flake's  edge,  and 
saluted  the  lady  very  prettily  and  cordially,  although  it 
seemed  almost  as  if  she  intended  taking  off  the  effect  of 
her  neighbors'  unkind  manner. 

Mrs.  Barre  drew  her  aside,  and  asked  her  directly 
what  the  matter  was. 

"  She  didn't  rightly  know,"  she  said,  "  to  say  know, — 
what  was  the  matter.  There  was  somethun  amongst  them, 
she  believed." 

"  Against  me  ? "  inquired  the  lady,  in  astonishment. 
"  There  can't  be  any  thing  against  me  !  " 

"  There's  many's  the  folks  ben't  gezac'ly  what  they  hold 
out  to  be,"  said  the  small-eyed,  great  woman  on  the  flake, 
in  a  steady  stream  of  voice,  that  made  its  way  to  where 
they  stood.  "  'Tisn'  alwaays  them  that  should  be  'xamples, 
that  bes  'xamples.  Thes  'am'  quality,  sometimes,  wasn' 
what  they'd  ought." 

The  good-natured  young  wife  made  an  effort  to  occupy 
the  lady's  attention,  telling  her  that  her  own  "  skipper  had 
gone  acrass  the  b'y;  and  wouldn'  the  lady,  mubbe,  be 
plased  to  walk  and  take  a  look  at  the  babby  that  seemed 

VOL.  i.  20 


306  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

oneasy,  like,  as  if  he  wasn'  well,  altogether  ?  He  took 
starts  into  hisself,  seeminly,  by  spurts.  He  was  just  in  at 
John  Yarl's  house." 

Mrs.  Barre  accepted  the  invitation,  and  went ;  and, 
having  seen  and  praised  the  baby,  again  asked  for  the 
explanation. 

"  I  believe,  ma'am,  'ee'd  oose  to  be  a  Roman, — so  I've 
ahard  said,  however, — afore  'ee  corned  to  think  better  of 
it,  most  likely,"  said  Prudence,  "  an'  it  was  somethun  was 
about  'ee  lavun  it."  The  mother  took  her  baby  and 
nursed  it. 

"  About  my  leaving  it ! "  said  Mrs.  Barre,  "  how  can 
they  think  the  worse  of  me  for  leaving  Popery,  if  I  had 
ever  been  in  it  ?  " 

"  Surely,  ma'am ;  an'  I'm  sure  ma'am,  if  it's  no  offence. 
I'm  clear  proud  to  see  'ee  come  anighst  where  I  am ;  I 
think  it  makes  me  better,  only  to  see  'ee." 

Mrs.  Barre  was  always  dignified  and  gentle  ;  but  now 
her  look  of  resolute  and  hopeful  sadness  was  disturbed. 

"  Thank  you,  kindly  ;  but  do  tell  me,  Mrs.  Barbury  !  " 
she  said. 

Prudence  was  very  loth  to  speak ;  but  she  spoke. 

"  It  isn'  fit  'ee  should  trouble  with  it,  ma'am ;  'ee've 
got  trouble  enough,  surely." 

"  I  shall  suffer  far  more,  if  I  do  not  know.  I  beg  you 
to  tell  me  plainly,  and  let  me  set  it  right" 

"  I  believe  ma'am,  it  was  somethun  as  might  be  agen 
your  good  name,  they  said  the  Romans  had.  I'm  sure  it 
was  lies,  or  the  Parescn  would  'a'  knowed  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  any  thing ?  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Pray,  tell  me,  like  a  woman  !  Do  !  I've  a  right  to  know 
it,  I'm  sure." 

"  Oh,    it's    only   somebody's    badness,   ma'am !      I'm 


MRS.  BARRE'S   SAD   WALK.  3Q7 

'shamed  to  say  it,  ef  'ee  wouldn'  make  me.  Some  one 
has  told  they  that  'ee'd  doned  somethun  agen  vartue, — I 
didn'  heed  it, — and  so  they  said  'ee  laved  the  Romans, 
for  fear  of  being  punished." 

"  What !  Who  could  be  wicked  enough  to  tell  such  a 
story  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Barre. 

"  That  was  what  they  told,  ma'am,  an'  I  said  it  was 
lies.  Mrs.  Freney  said  it  was  from  the  clargy,  so  they 
say." 

The  cloud  of  anxious  doubt  in  Mrs.  Barre's  eyes  broke 
suddenly  in  tears,  as  if  riven  by  a  thunderbolt. 

"  It  is  a  most  wicked  lie ! "  she  said.  "  Will  you  say 
that  it's  false,  Mrs.  Barbury  ?  Will  you  do  that  for  me  ? 
Don't  let  my  simple  friends  here  believe  it !  It's  wicked 
beyond  measure." 

"  'Deed,  I  won't,  ma'am ;  an'  there's  many  others  won't, 
either." 

"  Thank  you ! " — Mrs.  Barre  did  not  stay  to  say  more. 

As  she  went  up,  again,  by  the  way  that  she  had  come, 
indignation  and  sorrow  must  have  struggled  hard  against 
her  self-control.  She  walked  fast  and  strongly,  with  an 
unusual  color  in  her  cheeks,  and  a  nervous  excitement  of 
manner. 

When  she  reached  the  gorge  or  pass, — (what,  in 
America,  is  called  a  "notch,") — she  heard  the  voice  of 
little  Mary  behind  her,  calling  to  her ;  and,  turning 
round,  saw  that  she  had,  unconsciously,  got  a  good  way 
from  the  child. 

"  Mamma  !  mamma  !  "  said  the  little  thing,  coming  up, 
out  of  breath  and  in  much  distress,  "  Biddy  Freney  won't 
take  this  cap  that  I  sewed  on  purpose  for  her.  She 
brought  it  back  to  me,  and  said  her  mother  was  very 
sorry  but  she  couldn't  take  it ;  and  I  told  her  I  made  it 


308  THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

for  her  my  own  self,  and  I  showed  her  where  you  told 
me  how  to  do  it  and  all.  Why,  do  you  think,  she  wouldn't 
take  it  ?  " 

At  this  moment  the  mother  was  fairly  overcome  by  her 
feelings,  and  the  tears  began  to  run  down  her  cheeks 
"  We'll  give  it  to  some  one  else,  dear,"  she  said. 

"  Are  you  very  sorry,  mamma,  because  she  wouldn't 
take  it  ?  Was  it  bad  in  her  not  to,  when  I'd  made  it 
for  her  on  purpose  ?  "  inquired  little  Mary,  putting  her 
own  construction  upon  her  mother's  tears. 

The  mother  wiped  them  all  away,  and,  taking  the  little 
one  by  the  hand,  led  her  along  ;  but  there  was  no  one  to 
be  seen  in  the  road  through  the  pass,  and  passengers  are 
few  here,  and  in  the  loneliness  of  the  place  she  made 
less  effort  to  control  her  feelings,  and  the  tears  came 
again.  She  walked  more  slowly,  thinking  sadly,  when 
the  child  called  out : — 

"  Mamma  !  there's  the  man  that  came  to  our  house  one 
day ! "  and  Mrs.  Barre  saw,  sitting  on  one  of  the  loose 
rocks  by  the -wayside,  smoking  his  pipe,  the  man  who 
had  brought  the  message  from  Father  Nicholas, — 
Froyne. 

"  Sarvice  to  ye,  Mrs.  Bray !  a  pleasant  walk  to  ye, 
ma'am  !  "  he  said,  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  not  moving 
except  to  keep  his  face  toward  her,  as  she  came  up  and 
passed  by. 

She  was  no  person  that  would  pass  an  inferior  without 
knowing  and  saluting  him ;  but  she  took  no  notice  what 
ever  of  this  man  ;  only  walking  by,  hurriedly,  and  bidding 
little  Mary  try  how  far  she  could  keep  in  front. 

That  the  man  got  up  and  walked  after  her,  Mrs.  Barre 
might  easily  hear.  She  walked  the  faster  for  it,  until  she 
reached  the  settlements  on  the  way  up  the  harbor.  She 
stopped  nowhere  until  she  got  home. 


MRS.   BARRE' S  SAD   WALK.  3Q9 

There,  at  length,  she  told  the  story  of  her  sad  experi 
ence  to  Miss  Dare. 

"  It's  that  priest,  Father  Nicholas  !  "  said  her  friend. 

"  It  must  be !  "  said  Mrs.  Barre  ;  "  it's  the  fulfilment 
of  his  promise  ! " 

"  Can't  Father  Debree  set  it  right?" 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Barre. 

"  Then  we  must  speak  to  Mr.  Wellon." 

"  Not  yet." 

"  What  will  you  do,  then  ?  " 

"  Bear  it,  till  it  is  taken  from  me." 

"  All  this  will  kill  you  !  "  exclaimed  Fanny  Dare. 

"  Not  yet,  please  God." 


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